The Thousand Perils of Mars
by Zophiel Lagace
Summary: This is the story of the Conquest of Gaul and how 2 souls who should have never met found a way to be together, challenging time, and beating a thousand perils of Mars.
1. Introduction

**Introduction**:

"Comrades in arms, a thousand perils of Mars

have proven you and I, in ten years of victory now—

is this what your bloodshed in northern fields deserves,

your wounds, your deaths, for winters passed in the Alps?

Rome is sounding her loud alarms for conflict

as if Punic Hannibal himself had crossed the Alps!

Cohorts are filling up, full-strength with raw recruits,

Whole forests fall for fleets. What are their orders?

Pursue _Caesar_ on land and sea! (1)

—**o0o—**

**Author Note**: Thank you so much for clicking this story; pretty please, just take a minute and read the following, it'll save you lots of awkward moments and several "WTF?!" faces, I promise.

**Disclaimer**: This is NOT a historical essay, this is NOT based on the Rome HBO series or in any other book, novel, movie, videogame or TV Special (and probably it shouldn't even be on Fanfiction in the first place); is it not my intention here to discover the black thread or the wheel. My only goal is to tell a story based of historical events and characters and try to make it (hopefully) interesting. I do not own the characters involve in this crazy thing I call a story; I just own the interpretations of historical events and characters along with the many mistakes and far-fetched ideas.

**Warnings**: This believe-it-or-not freak-show of a story is YAOI, slash, m/m or whatever you want to call it (oh, yes. I'm dead serious about it) and full with videogame/anime/supernatural-like ideas. Its rated **—T—** but every now and then you'll find an **—M—** Chapter.

**Beware fellow muggle**, this is NOT a common story, it's more like Japanese _manga_ meets Ancient Rome (just see the cover image designed and illustrated by dear Hellysion), so proceed with caution.

Thank you so much,

**Zophiel**

* * *

(1) Marcus Annaeus Lucanus (Lucan). _Pharsalia_. Penguin Classics Edition, p 13

Lucan wrote this poem portraying Julius Caesar as a blood thirsty tyrant for taking part in the Civil War and not because he wanted to sing about Caesar's greatness; but, despite being a Caesar's fan myself, I like this part and, in my very personal opinion, I think is really cool, reason why I took a part of it for the title for this story.


	2. Leo Romanus I

—**Leo Romanus I—**

* * *

Thus is it decreed. Thee shall come a day, as the sacred seasons glide past,

when the house of Assaracus shall bring into bondage Phthia and famed Mycenae,

and hold lordship over vanquished Argos.

From this noble line shall be born the Trojan Caesar,

who shall extend his empire to the ocean, his glory to the stars,

a Julius, name descended from great Iulus!

Him, in days to come, shall you, anxious no more, welcome to heaven,

laden with Eastern spoils; he, too, shall be invoked in vows. (1)

* * *

_I know who I am. I have dreamed about it. Some say I am out of my mind, others that I am ambitious, ruthless. Dangerous. Others that I am just another one, another man adrift in a sea of gray souls with no purpose and no direction, buried under the heavy burden of a name too big and a purse too small. I don't agree. I don't like to be defined by what others think of me. Only I have that power, to create my own destiny and to shout to the world 'This is who I am.' Actions define a man, nothing else, but words...words are a weapon, in the right hands, with the right person, in the right time._

_Words are what remains after your time, words are your witnesses, your voice, your thoughts, and words will reach you now, through centuries of dust and chaos, of blood and suffering, of marvels and great deeds. And this…this is my life, my story, my stage, and I am the main character in a play that will change the world._

**Oo0oO**

_**Iunius, 116 AD**_

The iron soles of his boots resounded against his ears, an interminable echo ranging to eternity through hallways already old when Coriolanus dared to march against Rome; an ancient beauty surrounded him, overwhelming, even frightening, walls that had seen too much without eyes, heard too much without ears, mute witnesses of centuries of wars and glory, still standing after thousands of years. His implacable heartbeat against his chest felt like a horse charging in the middle of the battlefield and, the same anxiety he always experience before the _bucinae_ gave the order to advance, took over his body.

Slowly, very slowly, almost like walking inside a dream, _clack, clack,_ each footstep loudly disturbing the supernatural peace of that place, awakening its ancient demons and ghosts, its ancient magic and legends—. _Should I be afraid?_ —he grinned, mocking his momentary fear. Why should he be afraid when he was entering Babylon as its rightful master?— _At my age fear is nothing more than a lifelong companion_ — a soft breezed made the fine curtains dance, up and down, the rooms breathing, carrying a sweet perfume from its legendary gardens, bringing to life the whole palace— _Strange…_—a place so big and so small, so crowded and so alone. He had the impression of stepping inside another place, somewhere distant, far-far away from this world…his world.

— Your orders, Caesar? —Aulus' voice shattered the fragile peace he had enjoyed, the spell that had caught him just for a blissful moment. He stared at the poor man in utmost silence, his intense ultramarine eyes merciless on him, knowing perfectly well he was making the Tribune uncomfortable and not caring one bit. He looked terrible, implacable, the contrast of his hair as dry blood and his intense eyes gave him a savage appearance that was impossible to pass unnoticed. Intimidating.

_I'm being childish_ —and unfair with the praetorian Tribune who had been his inseparable companion since the first time he reached the gates of Sarmizegetusa, the first time he defeated the Dacians, and Aulus had always been a loyal and brave man, risking his life to save him from Decebalus' schemes. Yes, he was being unfair but he wasn't in the mood. He felt so old and so strange since they crossed the Ishtar Gate, haunted by memories and ghosts of the past. _Decebalus_…it had been so long since the last time he thought about the defeated King of the Dacians, the man who gave so much suffering and so much glory, forcing Longinus, his best friend, to commit suicide.

— Caesar? —Aulus insisted, feeling unease and praying for that dreadful silence to end. No matter how many years had passed, no mattered how many more would be, his heart would always sank hearing that name that would never truly belong to him but a name people insist was his: _Imperator Caesar Nerva Traianus Augustus_.

— Leave me, I want to be alone —Trajan did not wait for an answer, just turned and continued his way, not knowing where he was going, ignoring Aulus, his duty and who he was.

_Caesar_…Curious how time, the Gods or destiny had played with Trajan—. _Now I am "Caesar"_—and he laughed, an uproarious laughter without humor, manic, hysterical, echoing against the same walls that had seen Alexander III of Macedon walking through its corridors—. _Are you laughing too Jules? Tell me, why do I have to keep on living, alone? Why?…_

— WHY? Aren't you listening? —Trajan shouted to the air, to no one and to someone, suddenly furious, angry at his destiny that had blessed him as much as it had cursed him, angry with the Gods for giving him life without a soul. He stopped and turned, arms wide open as if inviting an invisible enemy to attack, raising his voice at each word without noticing—. Why do I have to remember everything? Why did you condemn me to this?…WHY?!

_Do you really want an answer?_ —Trajan turned with the same speed and agility of a 20 years old boy, hand on the hilt of his _gladius, _not knowing what he was waiting, an enemy? A slave? A servant? Anything but what he saw: a woman, more floating than standing on her toes, on the window's frame, dressed with a soft, thin, white dress, its fine fabric outlining every curve of her delicate almost androgyny body, dancing at the wind's mercy like her long midnight hair, undulating like water waves. Her skin was caramel and her eyes like the rising sun watching him as if able to peek in the very depths of his soul.

_Is she a ghost?_ —she didn't seem to weight, like air, just there. She smiled sweetly at him, as if he were a lost child.

_I am not a ghost, Marcus_ —she talked but her lips didn't move.

_Death has finally come to grant my wish and relieve me from my prison of flesh_ — Trajan was not scared and that made her smile again, reading everything he felt and thought with the same ease a sailor reads the stars.

_I am not here to take you Marcus, I am here to give you answers_ —she spoke again directly into his mind, confusing him.

— Why? —Trajan sheathed his sword, he did not understand but, always practical, decided to take control of the situation—. Why would you give me answers? Why now?

_Your offering has pleased us _—she answered and, for the first time in years, he felt cold sweat running down his spine.

— What offering? —he asked without voice. The master of the Roman Empire, the conqueror of Dacia and now of the Parthians, knew what she meant but was too scared to admit it. Could it be…?

_You gave us blood, you gave us lives, you gave us a present in every man who had perished under your orders, and for that I am here_ —her voice was like a lullaby, sweet and relaxing but it made the hair behind his neck stand and his blood chill .

— Who are you? —his knees trembled but Trajan forced himself to stay there, not to run.

_I am the wise one, I am known with many names, Marcus_ —her face never change, a perfect statue, only her lips curved in a loving smile and her eyes following Trajan's every move gave her some semblance of life—. _Ask me, Marcus, ask me. What is that you always wanted to know? What is that your heart longs for?_

Trajan opened his mouth and his voice failed; his knees felt so weak that for an instant he feared he would fall. He knew perfectly well what he longed for but the beat of his heart resounded against his ears, a deafening sound, making him dizzy. He was lost. For years he had begged for an answer and now that he knew was so close to get one all his courage appeared to be dissolving like the morning mist. Finally, have the Gods found mercy for someone like him? — _Is there really mercy in this world?_ —he wanted to believe in her and so he opened his mouth again.

— Would I ever see **him** again? —he could be 62 years old, he could be known now as _Optimus Princeps_, princes and satraps bow before him but, in that moment, he was just an orphan child.

_You will_.

The vision in front of him vanished like morning mist and he fell on his knees, unable to stand, exhausted and overwhelmed. His wish would be granted. When? It didn't matter; he had waited his entire life he could wait a little longer as long as Trajan were with him again. He closed his eyes…

* * *

(1) Publius Vergilius Maro (Vergil). _The Aeneid_: Book I, Jupiter's Prophesy.


	3. The Helvetii Pt I

—**Caput I—**

* * *

Trajan, renewing his policy of conquest, seems to have seen a model in him [Caesar]. That is connected particularly, in all probability, with Caesar's plans for his last expeditions: those against the Dacians in the north and the Parthians in the east. (1)

Caesar's original intention may well have been a Balkan campaign, probably to curb the growing power of the Dacian King Burebista, who was carving out a powerful empire around his heartland in what is now Transylvania. The region was wealthy, and scarcely explored by Roman armies, offering the glory attached to defeating people never before encountered. (2)

* * *

**_Martius, 58 BC_**

A man with the sun in his hair and skin pale like the moon watched him, over him, close, so close, he could smell the strong aroma impregnated in his cloths: sweat and blood. He couldn't see his eyes, just his mouth, slightly parted, closing the distance between them, like a thief lurking in the dark to steal what he could not obtain in a different way—._ Not again, not this time_ —the vile rose inside his throat, the revulsion and anger filled his body, and he trembled like a leaf at the mercy of the wind.

He hated it.

He hated to be the leaf, he hated the man over him, he hated to be weak. There was nothing he could do to stop the pain, the humiliation, the fear, nothing but let it happen hoping with all his forces it will end soon. Cold, distant and magnificent Jupiter _Optimus Maximus_ on the Capitoline hill, why did he fail to answer him, he who was his _flamen_ _dialis_? But he did not pray anymore, why fall on his knees at the feet of the marble Gods if they never answer him? Cold, distant and magnificent Jupiter _Optimus Maximus_ was too far away to hear even his cries.

He didn't cry anymore.

— _Shush_…—was the only sound that made the man over him—. _Shush_…—as if he were a wild horse who needed to be tamed—. Be good, it will be the best for you…

…Julius opened his eyes. It had been years since the last time this particular memory had came to him—. _Why now?_ –it was a nightmare but he was used to the nightmares, assaulting him night after night like a savage enemy since Julius could remember. They were his faithful companions and he no longer cared much about what they had to say. Nightmares were a constant, like the sun coming out each morning, like the smell of humanity and wastes on the streets of Rome; constant and natural as the noise outside the _insula_ in the Subura where he had been born.

Being bothered by a nightmare seen to Julius as pointless as to be upset because winter was cold—. _But this was not a nightmare, this was a memory_ –and one that hadn't haunted him in a very long time—. _Why now?_ —if he were a man who believed in omens and divine portents, he would be on his knees (or at some augur's or charlatan's door) asking heavens for its meaning, but what truly troubled Julius was to start his term as Pro-consul of Gallia Transalpina, Cisalpina and Illyricum with the image of Sulla burned in his mind.

_I shouldn't bother with this. I have things to do_ —he stood up feeling as if he hadn't sleep at all, his muscles screaming and complaining, still tired thanks to the savage march, covering the distance between Rome and Geneva in just 8 days—. _This is what I get for losing time outside Rome waiting for the outcome of Cicero's trial_ –but he was finally here, in Gallia Cisalpina, Gallia _Togata_. The province had so many Roman citizens that it was everybody's wonder why on earth it was still considered a province instead of part of Italy.

_The same as Gallia Transalpine. How is that nobody see that both provinces have to enjoy the same privileges as the rest of the Italian cities or the wounds from the Civil War and of Sulla's years would never heal?_ —Sulla's regime. Sulla's legislation. Sulla's legacy. He had fought earnestly against Sulla's reforms throughout his entire political career. Why? In the blink of an eye he could see once again that man with the sun in his hair over him…

…_Shush_…

He knew why.

It had been Fortune's doing that poor Metellus Celer, former Pro-consul of Gallia Transalpina, and most unlucky husband of the infamous Clodia, had died, and again it had been Fortune's doing the Senate had chosen to give him command over Gallia Transalpina in addition to Gallia Cisalpina and Illyricum— _Fortune's doing with a little help _—it was his opportunity, now he finally could do something for the people living beyond the River Po, extent their civic rights, and end a possible threat to the future of Rome. For them and of course for him.

_To end with Sulla's ghost_ —was this his personal vendetta?

…_Shush_…

Maybe it was.

Niketas, Julius' Greek slave, hurried inside the small room to pick everything up. He had a really good idea of how was his new master by now and was sure they would be leaving as soon as the horses were ready—. _And we'll eat breakfast again on the road_ —Niketas almost sighed. He was a handsome young boy of 17 years, not too tall, long light brown hair, pale blue eyes and a quick mind that had given him the chance to work as a scribe despite of his youth; he had been a present from Marcus Licinius Crassus, a man with so many slaves that he could very easily found a new city with all of them…or maybe two. Until three weeks ago Niketas had enjoyed an easy, luxurious, comfortable life (better than most free Romans) helping the old Epictetus with his former master's documents and library.

Yes, really easy life, perhaps it was thanks to this that Marcus Licinus Crassus decided to give him as a gift—. _And I ended here, in the middle of no-where with my thighs on fire after riding for days as if a horde of barbarians were behind us_ —without noticing Niketas began to throw everything as if the cloths had mortally offended him—. _Why is it I have to do a simple slave's job? I'm not a simple slave! I can read and write in 4 different languages, I shouldn't be here cleaning. I really have no idea what was master Crassus thinking. I heard this Caesar-guy was Consul a couple of months ago but I really have my doubts if he…_

— Niketas —Julius' voice made the boy jump.

— Yes, _domine_? —Niketas began to sweat when Julius said nothing and just stared at him for a moment. Those eyes…so intense, like watching the stars at night, distant and fascinating, mysterious and full of secrets; they looked at him as if capable of reading his most hidden thoughts, his very soul. And Niketas swallowed, prey of the very irrational fear that his new master could be some kind of sorcerer.

— When you finish here —Julius finally spoke, calm and soft like summer breeze—, see that food is ready and packed. We'll leave immediately.

— Yes, _domine_ —yep, another meal on the road. Julius left the room, anxious to continue the journey but betraying no sign of it, and Niketas sighed with relief... those eyes, no man should have eyes like those.

The inn they had stayed the night before was surprisingly clean and reasonably comfortable…if by comfortable you mean it wasn't bug infested. Thank Jupiter _Optimus Maximus_ for that! Julius hated bugs with all his might, especially after that hellish trip to Mytilene when he was 18 and had been forced to stay at an unhealthy hut, people insisted was an inn, infested with fleas—. _That too was Sulla's fault. If it hadn't been for him I wouldn't have had to leave Rome like a criminal_ —now, if Julius had had any option at all he would have chosen to stay at an acquaintance's house, but time was against him and his priority was to reach his Legion as soon as possible.

**Oo0oO**

Sometimes Julius wondered if being intelligent was not a curse instead of the blessing the world insisted it was. Take Marcus Tullius Cicero for example, the man was brilliant, a little annoying but brilliant, gifted with a quick mind and a sharp tongue, one of his speeches could have made Cato the Elder reconsider the destruction of Carthage. But Cicero was too cautions, too timid and, worst of all, extremely indecisive—. _Too coward_ –his only true achievement had been to uncover the conspiracy of Catilina– _Although, if Lucius Sergius had truly been as dangerous as Cicero claimed, I have no idea_.

Julius had always wondered if Catilina had acted in the way he did because he had planned it from the beginning or because Cicero didn't let him any other choice–. _Like many others before him, had Lucius Sergius being another victim of the Senate, with no other choice to survive but to rise in arms?_ –he shook his head. It was pointless to think about this now and he had more pressing issues to attend at the moment… like reaching the Tenth Legion before the Helvetians moved again.

No. Intelligence was not guaranty for swift action. On the contrary, sometimes Julius thought intelligent men were too cautious because they understood better than others all the things that could possible go wrong. Like him, who was still on the road, still thinking what to do, still watching the Alps—. _The Alps… I wonder if Hannibal had so many doubts when he decided to cross them_ –doubts were like death, consuming you slowly until there was only your cold empty corpse that once was full of dreams.

— Is there really going to be a war? –he didn't turn, he didn't have to know it was Decimus Junius Brutus Albinus, at his right side, consumed by curiosity and hungry for news; looking at the Pro-consul for any scraps of information that could ease him a little... or that he could share with the younger Military Tribunes and increase his coolness.

— You heard the news –he didn't ask the obvious and turned to face him, the orange-blond locks of his hair over his intense aquamarine eyes.

Decimus Brutus, as he was commonly known, was not as tall as Julius, dark hair with curious grayish lights and dark eyes; 27 years old, still young to hold a major post and with a very turbulent and colorful youth thanks to his friendship with famous troublemakers like: Publius Clodius (brother of the infamous Clodia, accused by his not too trustworthy enemies of sleeping with his sisters and staunch opponent of Cicero), Marcus Antonius (the good for nothing son of his cousin Julia Antonia) and Gaius Curio (a very vocal opponent of his alliance with Pompeius and Crassus who had also been accused of being Antonius' lover… or so Cicero said). With such a background against him it was doubtful if Decimus was actually going to achieve something worth remembering in the future.

Why then was he there as a Military Tribune? Decimus wasn't too smart, that was true, but had lots of common sense and in time, he could become someone worth noticing—. _And unlike Clodius he is not as arrogant to believe that rules don't apply to him_ –the only major fault he found in Decimus was his lack of conviction; it was alarmingly easy to overpower him with a strong personality, to mold him as you wanted. When he was with Clodius Decimus was very much like him: reckless and carefree, and now that he was here he behaved with moderation and all seriousness.

_He still needs to mature_ –he mused in silence, his aquamarine eyes still on the young man who was beginning to feel uncomfortable under such inspection. Julius always forced himself to remember that it made people uneasy when he watched them intently for a long time, and so he looked again at the front.

— I heard a horde of some Gallic tribe called the Helvetii is approaching, apparently they want to cross through Gallia Transalpina, or something like that –Decimus finally answered, thanking all the Gods of his household when Julius turned and looked at the road. _Edepol!_ (3) What strange eyes he had!

_Horde? 368,000 Helvetians are more than just a horde_ –Julius thought but said nothing, he had also learned it was very easy for him to make people look stupid and men hated to be humiliated. He had no intentions to insult Decimus, so he closed his mouth and mused about the situation. He had 4 Legions: one stationed in Gallia Transalpina and 3 belonging to Gallia Cisalpina and Illyricum (which by the way, were still too far away at winter quarters to be of any use at the present moment). Even with his 4 Legions that meant a little more than 20, 000 men—. _20,000 against 368,000, hardly a very fair match_.

— What are you planning to do? –asked Decimus, sneezing. The air was cold and a strong smell of wet earth filled his nostrils. They were close now to the military camp, the sight of recently cut trees along the way told Decimus so and a strange nervousness ran through his body like a tickle…fear? No, more like anxiousness perhaps. He didn't know what to expect that was a feeling that had him on the edge.

— What else? Talk to the Helvetians –judging by the other's reaction this was the last thing he was expecting to hear from the Pro-consul.

— Talk to them? –he wouldn't be more surprise if Julius had said he was planning to dance in front of them—. About what? A settlement? –now Julius had his complete attention.

— Does this look like Saturnalia to you? Trust me, I'm not in the mood for gifts –Julius gave him one of his charming and enigmatic smiles, those smiles that made women fall at his feet with praises to the woman who bore him—. But I can't possible fight them just with 1 Legion, don't you agree?

— So?

— You'll see —was the mysterious answer that did nothing but increase Decimus' curiosity. Julius enjoyed his little prank, knowing perfectly well he had only worsen his companion's anxiety; but it was fine, he had always liked to have people guessing about his intentions, not knowing what to expect of him or what to think. And the Gods knew he was really good at hiding his most inner thoughts and emotions.

Since Julius had memory he had been like this, never letting people to actually know him, to get close and have a peek of what was hidden in his heart—. _No, that's not true, once, long ago, I still believe that you could trust others _—only one person had the privilege of being called his friend, a true friend and not just a convenient one, the one person brutally honest to tell him things as they were and not as he wanted them to be—. _That's why I appreciate Camus despite his multiple and colorful defects _—he smiled, suddenly a little depressed thinking about Camillus and his shattered dreams of childhood—. _And why am I thinking all of this now?_ —it was that stupid nightmare's fault.

— Do you see that? —asked Decimus. How long had they been riding in complete silence? He had no idea but suddenly Julius felt as if hours had passed, even if the sun shining with force on the clear blue sky told him otherwise. How he hated sunny days.

— What is it? —he asked, recovering quickly and, once again, hiding his thoughts. Decimus pointed to a distant village, hidden far beyond the trees along the road, on a hill, looking so small that it could have been an ants' town.

— Its nothing probably, but I was wondering, do you think in forgotten places like that people fight and argue over politics as we do back at Rome? People pushing themselves to gain office, struggling to get the first place, jealous rivalries among the so-called "great men" —it could appear to be a foolishness but for Julius it was an interesting observation—. I mean, who could possibly want to govern a ghastly flea infested place like that? —he laughed, celebrating his own joke as if it were the funniest thing he had ever heard.

— Well, "as far as I am concern; I would rather be the first man here than the second in Rome." (4) —and once again, he left Decimus more confused than ever.

**Oo0oO**

Everybody knew that, when a Roman ended his term as Consul he was entrusted to govern a province with the rank of Pro-consul. When a Roman wanted to gain military glory and challenge Pompeius for the title of Magnus, he was careful to choose a province where it was more likely to engage in a military conflict, like Syria with its proximity to the Kingdom of the Parthians. So, when Julius chose his province he was thinking to fight in the Balkans and invade the Dacians from Illyricum, imagining a brilliant campaign with of course an even more brilliant triumph (because this time he was going to have the mother of all triumphs and not even Cato with all his power to be annoying, obnoxious and absolutely irrational, would be able to stop him again).

— Camus you have to admit it is a good plan –had been Julius' words back at Rome to his best friend Lucius Furius Camillus (5), who was the descendant of the most dashing Marcus Furius Camillus, so-called Second Founder of Rome. Of course, this Camillus was everything but dashing. First of all he was only a Senator because his older brother Gneo (a famous jurist who was also a dear friend of Cicero) insisted. Lucius Camillus was a great epicurean, as his big and round belly full with happiness could attests, he hated mobs, abhorred any kind of physical activity and had absolutely no interest in the _Res publica_, the everlasting battle between the _populares_ and _optimates_, the agrarian law, the provinces administration, the calendar with its imprecisions, the corruption of the courts or what to do with the grain dole.

Camillus only cared about his wellbeing, his comfort, and of course the latest gossip in the city, he wasn't even married (didn't like children) and own a wittiness and sharp tongue that could have been really helpful at the lawcourts for his brother utterly frustration. Camillus was of the opinion that: why do it yourself if you could pay someone else to do it? And, if you couldn't pay someone else, then threw yourself to the Tiber with a rock around your neck because you were a loser. Why were the 2 of them such good friends? Maybe because both were cynical, practical, brutally honest and so different they never got bored with each other.

— Jules, to buy a villa at Baiae IS a good idea, to invade the territory of smelly, hairy, screaming barbarians is hardly what I consider a good idea —Camillus answered from his very comfortable chair that looked about to fell apart under his weight.

In the lavish garden of Camillus' _domus _at the Palatine (that had little to envy Lucullus' gardens), a small perfect paradise, it was really easy to forget you were in Rome, you could transport yourself without effort to another place, far from here and away from all your problems. It was truly a bless place and the favorite spot of both friends, just in front of the fountain showing an impressive statue of Neptune, an original piece taken from Corinth just before Lucius Mummius Achaicus destroyed the city, and under the old stone pine.

— Amuse me. Pretend for a moment that you care about the provinces and that you give a fig for smelly, hairy, screaming barbarians —asked Julius, sitting at his side, and Camillus' short fingers intertwined over his perfectly round silhouette.

— Fine. I can't see why it would be necessary to start a war with the Dacians.

— Easy, we need a new route to Asia.

— Why? There's already Illyricum and we own the Mediterranean —said Camillus but Julius shook his head.

— Do I have to remember you how dangerous and unpredictable can be the Mediterranean? —said the man kidnapped by pirates.

— Please, thanks to our Roman Alexander the sea is as safe as a military camp —Camillus mocked Pompeius and his supposedly likeness with the Macedonian King.

— Yes, sure. Does our Alexander also control the weather? —Camillus shrugged—. That and the land roads through Illyricum aren't enough. Thank Pompeius conquests in Asia that now it is necessary to open a new route —Julius insisted, his voice strong and intense—. It can be done, I have thought about it and it's possible to subjugate the Dacians.

— In 5 years? Because that's all you got, a 5 years command according to the _lex Vatinia_ —Camillus remembered him. Normally a Pro-consul governed a province for a period of 1 year, but Julius had secured the help of Publius Vatinius, one of the 10 Tribunes of the Plebs, who had passed a law giving him a special command.

— No. 5 years is not enough, at least not for everything I have planned… —the wind brought a leaf, leaving it over the table between them and Julius took it, his eyes on it while he talked—. I need 10 years to accomplish my goal.

— Right. And just how are you going to convince your dear friends at the Senate to give you another 5 years, genius? —Camillus lifted one eyebrow—. You do realize you were lucky to avoid that ridiculous appointment of allotting the goods and pastures of Italy instead of governing a province, right?

Julius laughed without noise remembering that. His enemies at the Senate considered him dangerous and, in a desperate attempt to neutralize him, they had voted that both of that year Consuls wouldn't have provinces to govern after their term, instead Julius and Bibulus would have the boring duty of overseeing the pastures of Italy. But the plan failed and now Julius has 2 provinces and 4 Legions under his command. Julius 1 - _Optimates_ 0.

— For someone so intelligent sometimes you have truly idiotic ideas —Camilus continued—. Bibulus has spent your whole consulship watching the skies, looking for bad omens to invalidate all your actions, as always with the support of your admirer Cato who, by the way, is allergic to "special commands", and you really think they will extent yours?

— Trust me, they will. I'll find a way, I always do —he let the leaf again at the wind's mercy and turned to look at his friend with that particular look that said much more than a thousand words.

_Oh, Jupiter! Not THAT look _—Camillus knew what that meant. He had learned that Julius was never wrong… or at least not when he looked at you like this and spoke with such energy. Was it really possible? —. _If someone can do it that one is Jules_ —but still… Camillus turned suddenly serious; he was worried and feared what the Senate was capable of doing if Julius stretched their already scarce patience. He straightened in his chair, making the poor thing protest.

— Even if you are right about this, you have to be really clever because Cato is going to find every possible flaw in your administration and, if you fail to give the Senate a good reason to start a war, you'll be in serious problems, and I mean serious as Claudius Pulcher's disaster at Drepana (6).

— But I don't have sacred chicken —Julius joked, in a sweet innocent voice that didn't fool his friend. Camillus saw him through narrowed eyes.

— Yours are the worst jokes ever.

— Whatever, at least I'm not fat.

— Better fat than a slut like you.

— Whatever.

And Camillus was awfully right…about the Senate and the legitimate reasons to begin a war, that is. Julius knew it and for that reason he had thought carefully about his plans at the Balkans, but Gaul? It never crossed his mind but apparently he would end fighting here— _Is it really a good idea? I never considered Gaul as an option but… this is too much of an opportunity to just let it pass_ –he mused, waiting for the Helvetian ambassadors at the _praetorium_, at the very center of the military camp. Whatever he was going to do he had to do it that day.

There was no time to lose.

* * *

(1) Paul Zanker. _A Companion to Julius Caesar,_ _Chapter 21: the Irritating Statues and Contradictory Portraits of Julius Caesar_. Wiley-Blackwell, p 311.

(2) Adrian Goldsworthy. _Caesar: Life of a Colossus_. Yale University Press, p 197

(3) _Edepol_: an expression of surprise.

(4) Plutarch. _The Fall of the Roman Republic: Live of Caesar_. Penguin Classics Edition, p 265.

(5) Julius' friend, Lucius Furius Camillus is my own invention BUT, at Caesar's time, there really existed a Gneo Camillus who was a jurist and a friend of Cicero, all I did was to give him a brother.

(6) The battle of Drepana: it was a naval battle of the First Punic War (249 BC) the Consul Publius Claudius Pulcher (ancestor of Publius Clodius, by the way) had to take the auspices before the battle; so he went to the sacred chickens onboard the ship and feed them, but the chickens refused to eat, which was a TERRIBLE omen. Claudius Pulcher great solution was to throw the sacred chickens overboard, saying: "Let them drink, since they don't wish to eat". And he lost that battle, it was a disaster, and after that, he committed suicide.


	4. The Helvetii Pt II

—**Caput II—**

* * *

For the time being Clodius provided a rearguard for his enterprises in the north. But what he [Caesar] wanted to achieve there would still have to be done under the most difficult conditions imaginable. The whole position he had so far won for himself would not stand up to constitutional examination, and the _optimate_ nobility with its followers had given him notice of a fight to death […] The performance of great deeds in Gaul was, therefore, not just a matter of ambition but of self-preservation. On the path on which he had entered inactivity meant ruin. Only if he returned much stronger he would be able to win through. But he could only devote half his energies to this end. He was forced to make equally strenuous efforts to ensure that the ground from which he was fighting the Celts was not cut from under his feet in Rome. (1)

* * *

His back hurt like hell and his muscles screamed in pain at each step. Marcus Aelius Rufus (2) felt like a fan of the Blues lost in the side of the Greens at the _Circus Maximus_: frowns, narrowed eyes and hostile stares followed him whenever he crossed paths with the men of the First and Forth _Centuriae _of the First Cohort—. _I knew this was going to happen, why am I surprised?_ —he didn't come from the same _dilectus_ that had raised the Tenth 2 years ago but this wasn't the reason behind the cold welcome he received that morning during his inspection around the camp—. _The reason is last night _—Gods! He was behaving like a _tiro_ (3) instead of the veteran Centurion he was.

What was wrong with him? Yes, Marcus had talked more than he should last night but he had nothing to feel ashamed for, on the contrary, there were really few _Primi Pili_ (4) Centurions who could boast to have served for nearly 20 years in the army and still be alive, not to mention to have served under great flashy names as Quintus Sertorius, Metellus Pius and Pompeius Magnus.

_20 years_… easy to say. Most of Marcus' old companions, acquaintances, enemies and good friends were dead. 2 decades full with so many adventures, blood, suffering, glory…he had been a boy, not even old enough to shave when he had joined the invincible Eagles of Rome, and after so many years his time in the army was over. He deserved his retirement, he had gained that right, and Pompeius himself had covered him with honors after his last campaign in Asia. A dream come true, every Legionary would have sold his mother to assure a comfortable retirement with all their limbs intact and enough money to build a house with bricks of gold.

_A dream or a nightmare?_ —Marcus had spent the last three years back home, at Italica in Hispania Baetica; but, after all his fighting years, he couldn't bring himself to like the quiet peaceful life at his family farm and soon came running back to the only place in which he had always felt like home: the army. His only problem was that his old commander was no longer active in any dashing campaign; instead, he was at Rome happily married to Julia Caesaris, so this time, and after 19 years fighting for Pompeius, he had accepted to serve under a different man.

_The cause of my present problems and a man I don't know and have absolutely no idea of what to expect of him _—and to be honest Marcus didn't expect anything from Caesar, as he had clearly announced the night before. Who was this Caesar-guy anyway? He couldn't help it, Marcus felt a natural distrust for Senators and a special dislike for _patricians_, blaming Metellus Pius for the first and Sulla for the latter, so he took great pains before finally making up his mind and coming here. Although not everything had gone the way he had planned it…

— You would have to know it was impossible to give you the post of _Primus Pilus_ Centurion, sir —said Marcus Cassius Scaeva that morning, walking at his officer's side on the _via principalis_. Scaeva was probably the only one in the whole Tenth Legion who talked to him in friendly terms after what had happened. Most of the men of his own Cohort watched him with resentment and the rest didn't give a damn for what happened to him. So Marcus was really grateful with Scaeva. He could be a hard veteran but that didn't mean he liked to be alone.

_I come from Magnus' Legions and my mistake was to assume this was Magnus' campaign_ —wrong words spoken at the wrong time. That had been the cause of his enmity with the First and Forth _Centuriae_. The men of the Tenth had fought with Julius at Hispania and, for reasons Marcus couldn't comprehend, they worshipped the man like a war god. He sighed...

— So, you are saying the Tenth is worth a mule's fart, is that it? —Septimus Modius, the _Primus Pilus_, had barked at the top of his voice the night before, assuring that every man inside the wine shop could hear him, even if they didn't want.

— What I am saying is you can't possibly compared Magnus to Caesar —Marcus had answered, oozing defiance from every pore. Holding his gaze. Septimus spat at his side—. Magnus has been collecting victory after victory since he was 24 years old, who is Caesar? What military glory had he gained? A couple of easy victories against the Lusitanians and you bunch of women hailed him as _Imperator_ —he spoke without thinking, he let his anger take control of the moment and the wine relax his common sense.

— And who are you to talk like that about the man who raised the Tenth, who made us who we are now? —that had been Gaius Crastinus, his eyes, so green that appeared to glow, nailed on Marcus and his dark brown hair almost standing on end like a furious cat.

He could have been handsome, or at very least attractive, if it hadn't been for the 2 vicious scars running down his cheeks, almost identical, made by the lucky knives of a Lusitanian thief who had taken him by surprised. That had been the most humiliating part. He had gained his 2 most flashy scars by a dumb mistake instead of gloriously earning them on the battlefield. Of course if you asked him, Crastinus always told a very heroic story with epic battles, and even a damsel in distress, and no one dared to contradict him, not a man like Crastinus who looked strong enough to break bones with his teeth in a bad day.

— And who are you exactly? Just a new Legion with a couple of decorations, the Sixth, the conqueror of Asia, the victor over Mithridates, could easily beat you any day —and those words had stared a very nasty fight that had ended with Marcus in the infirmary and Crastinus with his nose broken and a very black eye.

_I was a fool_, _what was I thinking?_ —the worst part was, Marcus knew exactly what he was thinking, what he was looking for, what he was lacking. It had been sheer luck that Marcus never managed to hit the _Primus Pilus_ and instead concentrated all his efforts in trying to leave Crastinus unconscious or he could have been executed for beating a superior officer—. _Maybe it would have been better to be executed…_

— This is not Magnus' Legions, sir —the short, bulky, bad looking Scaeva of square jaw, extremely short hair and dark gray eyes checked everything was in order and every man devoted to his duties as they walked, completely oblivion to what was his superior thinking.

— Trust me, I already noticed —said Marcus softly, barely raising his voice to avoid sounding as frustrated as he felt, his body still hurt after the terrible beating he had suffered but he would be damned if he started to complain in front of others. He brushed his not so short dark red hair, as dry blood, with his fingers. Scaeva thought he was angry because he hadn't been granted the same rank he previously enjoyed. It was not that but he decided to say nothing, he wasn't in the mood for explanations.

— Jupiter! You look as if you had been put on latrine duties, sir. _Secundus_ _Pilus Prior_ Centurion is not a bad thing —it was the lamest consolation ever but Marcus thanked the other's effort to cheer him up—. I have great hopes of getting to the rank myself, so if I were you, I wouldn't get too comfortable in your seat, sir —Scaeva was still_ optio_ (5)(actually he was Marcus' _optio_), but for what the newcomer had seen, he was one of the best men of the Cohort.

_That or my personal feelings are getting in the way_ —Marcus reminded himself to be careful, the last thing he needed was to be accused of favoritism—. _Not that the other Centurions never do such things _—and the truth was that several of his fellow officers did much worst things like exhorting their own men, asking for money in order to dispense them from certain duties. Marcus hated those practices and he had been famous in his previous Legions because he was a just and honorable man.

_But the men of the Tenth don't know me and they already heard about my "discussion" at the wine shop_ —he had scarcely weeks in the post and already screwing things up. He had a long way in front of him to gain his men's trust and to repair the damage made by his words. He had to prove himself and fast, the first days were always the critical ones, and if he didn't succeed soon to change their already bad impression of him it would be impossible later.

— So, you come from Pompeius' Legions, _Pilus Prior_ —Scaeva changed the subject finally bringing a smile to his usually serious face. Marcus couldn't help it, he wasn't a grumpy, bad tempered man but, since the Gods had not blessed him with a beautiful face and graceful features, people usually mistook his lack of smiles and seriousness with crankiness. But he didn't complain about his looks, on the contrary, for him beautiful people used to be the worst, pampered and arrogant, thinking they deserve everything just because their pretty face.

Gneus Pompeius Magnus for example, he wasn't an Adonis but was the best General Rome ever had since Publius Cornelius Scipio the _Africanus_. Pompeius was an undefeated General who had fought in Africa, Hispania, Italia and Asia; he had even finished the pirates that plagued the Mediterranean for over a generation in just 40 days. 40 days! Foreign Kings prostrated to his feet and Sulla himself had called him Magnus, Great One— _And he achieved everything by himself, unlike Lucius Licinius Lucullus who had to seduce a woman in order to gain the command against Mithridates, and later he dares to blame Magnus of stealing him the campaign and his victory. _

— That's right —Marcus answered—. I was named _Pilus Primus_ of the Sixth Legion after the siege of Jerusalem.

— Took part in the Great Man's triumph, sir?

— Yes, for the second time —that memory filled Marcus with pride. If he closed his eyes he could still see the streets of Rome packed with people from everywhere, the sweet perfume of flowers floating in the air and the screams, Gods! Thousands of voices raising a single clamor at the same time, making the sky tremble, echoing in his soul from that day to the rest of his life. It was a memory he cherished, one of his most precious possessions, it always put a smile on his lips and a light in his ultramarine eyes—. I fought for Magnus ever since he arrived to Hispania to end with Sertorius' rebellion and followed him in every single campaign.

— Against the pirates, sir?

— Against the pirates —Marcus nodded—, against Mithridates, across Armenia…Ah! To see king Tigranes laying his diadem at Magnus' feet outside Artaxata, bowing to the mighty of Rome. I followed my _Imperator_ (5) to Galatia, Syria, Albania, Jerusalem… I was present when Magnus insulted the Parthian King Phraates, refusing to acknowledge him as King of Kings. And the Parthians, they were afraid of us! The proud heir of the Achaemenid Empire feared the Eagles of Rome —he smiled—. Those were good times.

Marcus had also being at Pompeius' side at the time of Spartacus' rebellion but it wasn't worth mentioning. A victory against slaves count for nothing and it only strengthened his low opinion about Senators that Marcus Crassus had insisted so much in being recognized as the sole conqueror of the Thracian gladiator. Scaeva didn't have to be a genius to know his new _Pilus Prior_ felt a great admiration for Pompeius, so called Magnus, and that did nothing but increase his curiosity.

— You said you joined Pompeius' Legions at Hispania, sir —Marcus nodded—. That means almost 20 years ago. Why are you still in the Legions?

— Got bored of farm life…—but Marcus interrupted his words when he saw a curious group outside the _praetorium_, very close to the sacred place where the eagle of the Tenth Legion rested, grounded and surrounded by the standards of the _Centuriae_—. What in Dis' name is that?

It was a group of 30, maybe 40, men—. _Gauls_ —Marcus was almost sure. The_ Pilus Prior_ Centurion had seen Celtiberians during his youth at Hispania, men who looked very much like the ones in front of him, but—… _This group had something different from the Celtiberians, it's like comparing a Molossus and a Laconian, both are dogs but are not the same _—they showed cloths of bright colorful fabrics with woven patters but Marcus noticed than 2 or more men wore the same kind of patterns as if they belong to the same group. Light weight linen cloaks attached with _fibulae_ at the shoulders, torcs and bracelets of what appear to be solid gold.

Tall and pale, almost all of them were blond but long ago Marcus had heard these Celts used to bleached their hair so only all mighty Jupiter knew of what color was really their hair. All of them had beards and long hair, but perfectly combed and taken care, paying careful attention to their appearance, arrogant and proud—. _They are warriors, all of them. A true military aristocracy, like the Celtiberians. _

Almost all the Gauls were old men or men who had left their best years behind, owing a dignity that only a noble birth could give you and wisdom learned over the pass of time. They were surrounded by what it looked like a whole _Centuria_, but they looked as if this was their personal guard of honor instead of hard faced enemy soldiers who had stripped them of all their weapons by the commanded of…who was the man of the transverse crest?—. _By Pollux! It's Gaius Crastinus_ —Marcus couldn't avoid the sour face, as if sucking a lemon, when he saw the bastard that was the _Princeps Posterior_ of the Fourth _Centuria_ of the First Cohort, barking orders, still wearing his black eye and red, swollen and broken nose. That sight almost made him laugh.

Since the first moment both men met had felt an instant dislike for each other (even if none was able to actually explain why) and the episode at the wine shop had done nothing but increased this dislike. Crastinus lifted his face as if he had known someone was looking at him and Marcus turned. Last thing he wanted was to let Crastinus believe he gave a damn about him or what he did.

— Looks like a group of Gauls came to see the Pro-consul, sir —Scaeva ventured the obvious explanation but Marcus didn't answer immediately.

— Looks like it —his eyes traveling among the Gauls with curiosity. Were these going to become their new enemy?

— I heard the Pro-consul ordered to destroy the bridge at Geneva and called a _dilectus_ to levy fresh troops in the province, sir —those were news to him.

_Then, it's going to be war_ —thought Marcus not at all excited. What kind of battle could he expect from a commander whose sole military experience came from 1 year fighting at Hispania Ulterior? But his thoughts were interrupted when his eyes found Crastinus' by accident. His fellow Centurion regarded him with a smirk and cold glare that ruined his mood.

— Come, we have things to do and no one requested our presence here—he turned, giving his back to the group and Crastinus' mocking face.

**Oo0oO**

Nammeius was one of the very few Helvetians who thought all this was a terrible idea. Standing there, in the middle of the Romans' camp, surrounded by foreign soldiers he did nothing but regret and cursed the dreadful day when Orgetorix announced his brilliant plan of emigrated from their homeland to look for richer lands on the southwest—. _There was nothing wrong with our lands, we could have stayed where we were if it hadn't been for Orgetorix's speech about the greatness of our warriors and how easy would be for us to control the rest of the Gaulish tribes_ —Nammeius didn't doubt their warriors were the best in all Gaul, of course they were! But that was not the point. To be honest, he had never liked Orgetorix, one of their great nobles, with vast numbers of slaves, men and possessions and an ambition only matched by his stupidity.

And time only served to proof Nammeius right.

Not so long ago they had discovered that their so appointed leader for the emigration plan had been brainwashing the Sequanian Casticus, convincing him to seize the control of his people and deposing his father, while trying a similar approach with the Aeduan Dumnorix. The problem hadn't been the ill advice Orgetorix gave; filling these men's heads with ideas of betrayal, treachery and dishonor, the problem was that Orgetorix was planning to do the same thing! To crown himself King, and take control over all the nobles of the different clans forming the vast tribe known by the Romans as Helvetii.

When the council of nobles discovered Orgetorix's plans they summoned him to stand a trial, but Orgetorix gathered all his men and resources and escaped…many thought he had committed suicide but Nammeius thought too little of him and preferred to think one of his own men had ended his life to save Orgetorix of further dishonor—. _Truth or not, the fact is Orgetorix escaped our justice but at least didn't live long enough to cause a greater damage _—if the immigration plan had ended with Orgetorix's life there would have been no problem, but the council of nobles still thought it was one hell of an idea and continued with the preparations—. _And now we are here, seeking an audience with the Roman governor_.

— You still think this is a mistake? —asked Verucloetius, one of the nobles of the Verbigeni. His high, strong body, long honeyed hair with sparks of white and bushy beard made him look like a bear and, whenever he wore his battle armor, he looked perfectly capable of killing a man with just one hand.

— If you know the answer why ask —Nammeius didn't want to be rude but he was certainly not in the mood for games. He wasn't as tall as the newcomer, slender but strong with blond hair almost completely white and extremely pale eyes, but wasn't in the least intimidated by the other's presence. Verucloetius forced a bark like laugh.

— For once I agree with you —that was new and Nammeius didn't bother in hiding his surprise—. We are losing our time here, asking for permission to cross through Roman territory —the bearish man moved around him, like a wolf encircling his prey—. We are the bravest and most feared tribe in all Gaul, why to bother asking?

— We can't cross through the Romans' lands by force…

— You are wrong, we can —Verucloetius moved closer, close enough to smell the heavy aroma of leather and sweat coming from his body—. Have you seen this camp? If this is all the Romans have to stop us their territories are as good as ours.

That was true. On their way here Nammeius had had the chance to see the Roman camp, at least what the _via Praetoria_ had let him to see, and he wasn't impressed—. _Here aren't sufficient men to face us, we outnumber the Romans greatly_ —but they hadn't come this far to fight… or at least that was what Nammeius wanted to believe—. _There are still many among us who think Orgetorix was right in one thing: in believing we are strong enough to control the southwest territories of Gaul and, if the Roman governor refuses to let us pass…_

— You lost your taste for war, old man —Nammeius ignored Verucloetius' mockery. They were exactly the same age, 65, and Nammeius knew that many took his caution as cowardice but, at his age, he no longer care about what others thought of him.

Noise at the front made them turn. The Roman with the traverse crest, who Nammeius took as the commander of the soldiers surrounding them, approached with a short and thin looking man, a slave perhaps, and said something in a language they didn't understand. The slave, who looked permanently sleepy thanks to his fallen eyelids, waited and then spoke in a passable Celt.

— The Pro-consul will see you now —and without waiting for an answer, he followed the man of the transverse crest inside the _praetorium_. After a quick discussion just 10 of the most prominent nobles of the Helvetii followed the slave and the rest agreed to wait.

The _praetorium_ was a bigger than Nammeius had expected. The place was a tent of wooden floor divided in several rooms full with scribes, soldiers, officers and slaves, everyone devoted to their duty but not missing a chance to look curiously at the singular group of Helvetii. And the curiosity was mutual, even if the Gauls were better at hiding it. They were guided into a spacious room with a desk at the end, buried under tons of papers, and a man behind it…

What was Nammeius waiting? He didn't even know himself but one thing was for sure, he wasn't expecting to see the man in front of them, and his own eyes doubled its size. He followed the man's moves with attention, from behind the desk to the front, to greet them, calm but alert. Who was this man? He didn't look like a Roman— _Or a common man. No, I have never seen someone like him…_—he was tall, blond-orange hair, like the afternoon sky, milky white skin, and his eyes, Oh, what eyes! Like a storm, majestic and savage, peaceful before unleashing its fury_—. Caesar, the slave says his name is Caesar. _

Nammeius watched him with curiosity, dressed in military uniform: a red wool tunic, _braccae_ reaching his knees, a heavy belt, bracelets and dark boots; the slave translated Julius' words but Nammeius wasn't paying attention, lost in his own thoughts, navigating over the turbulent waters of his meditations, wondering what kind of man was the Pro-consul—. _The kind you don't want as your enemy_ —Verucloetius reacted first, ready to plead a case for a cause he didn't believe but ready to do as his people commanded. Nammeius missed his first words, but soon forced himself to remain focus…

— …and for this our people are looking only for a place to settle in the south part of Gaul —Verucloetius was saying while the sleepy-looking slave did his best to translate his words.

— Why? —Julius asked; his raspy voice, silky smooth, like satin over sand, calm but strong, wanting to know, without passing judgment. A voice impossible to ignore, impossible to disobey— The Helvetii don't have a land of their own?

— We had, Pro-consul —this time it was Nammeius the one who spoke, leaving Verucloetius with the mouth open like a fish out of water for his utterly displeasure—. We left behind our land and burnt 12 towns and 400 villages —Julius frowned.

— What for?

— To strengthened our people's courage —again Verucloetius—. By burning our towns and villages we denied ourselves a place to go back, leaving only one path ahead of us.

_Is he impresses? Scared? Worried? Pleased?_ —Julius was a mystery for Nammeius, a question without an answer and the Helvetian had no idea of how to talk or deal with him.

— We come here today with a fair request—Nammeius spoke before Verucloetius made a mistake, and knowing his bold companion it was just a matter of time before it happened—: we ask to be granted free passage through the lands of the Roman province, we are looking for land on the southwest.

— And there is no other route? —Julius wanted to know.

— There isn't.

They all fell silent, a strange silence that no one knew how to interpret, Julius thought for a moment, slightly cocking his head, the locks of his hair brushing his cheek, a breathing statue like those that passed judgment over mortals at the Forum; and just when the Helvetii were getting impatience, Julius spoke again.

— I need time to consider your request; I ask you to come back on _Idibus Aprilibus_.

_That was all?_ —for a moment Nammeius didn't move, and judging by the expressions of his companions they were as confused as he. The meeting was over before it started, or that was the general opinion of the Helvetii, used to discussions of hours or even days. But Julius was not a man you question.

— Now what? —asked someone behind him. Nammeius sighed.

— I guess now we wait until April 13th.

**Oo0oO**

Julius didn't lose time, as soon as the last Helvetii was out of the camp, he summoned the _primi ordines, _the 10 Centurions (supposedly the best) commanding the First Cohort of the Tenth Legion, the only one at the camp in that moment, and his _Legatus_ and Military Tribunes—. _I need time_ —he had gained some but it wasn't enough, he needed to do something and the first step in his plan was simple: Fortify the bank of the Rhone, after that—. _After that… things will get interesting_.

* * *

(1) Matthias Gelzer. _Caesar: Politician and Statesman_. Harvard University Press, p 101.

(2) Marcus Aelius Rufus is own creation, the character and the name. Regarding his name, I chose _Marcus_ for reasons you'll understand (if you haven't already ;) ) _Aelius_ because the _gens Aelia_ was actually from Hispania and _Rufus_ because he is red-hair…but I feel oblige to explain that this name (the way I assembled it) never existed so I apologize if it sounds weird.

(3) _Tiro (singular) Tironis (plural)_: new recruits of the Roman Legions.

(4) Centurions had different ranks; the most important was the _Primus Pilus_ (singular) _Primi Pili_ (plural) the senior Centurion of a Legion who was in charge of the first _Centuria_ of the first cohort and of the entire cohort.

The _Secundus_ _Pilus Prior_ was in charge of the first _Centuria_ of the second cohort and of the whole cohort, the _Tertius Pilus Prior_ in charge of the first _Centuria_ of the third cohort and the whole cohort and so on.

The rest of the Centurions were ranked like this (for example):

**Fifth Cohort** (there were 10 cohorts and each one had 6 _Centuriae_):

Quintus Pilus Prior: First _Centuria_.

Pilus Posterior: Second.

Princeps Prior: Third.

Princeps Posterior: Forth.

Hastatus Prior: Fifth.

Hastatus Posterior: Sixth.

(5) _Optio_: was the second in command of a Centurion.

(6) _Imperator_: means commander.


	5. The Helvetti Pt III

—**Caput III**—

* * *

Caesar is said to have been tall, fair and well built, with a rather broad face and keen, dark eyes. His health was sound, apart from sudden fainting spells and a tendency to nightmares which trouble him towards the end of his life, but he twice had epileptic fits while on campaign. He was something of a dandy, so that he not only kept himself carefully trimmed and shaved but also, as some people have charge, depilated with tweezers. (1)

He [Caesar] showed that there was no danger which he was not willing to face, no form of hard work from which he excused himself. So far as his fondness for taking risks went, his men, who knew his passion for distinction, were not surprised at it; but they were amazed at the way in which he would undergo hardships which were, it seemed, beyond his physical strength to endure. For he was a slightly built man, had a soft and white skin, suffered from headaches and was subject to epileptic fits. (His first epileptic attack took place, it is said, in Corduba). Yet so far from making his poor health an excuse for living an easy life, he used warfare as a tonic for his health (2)

* * *

_**Aprilis BC**_

— That's enough for today, boys! —Marcus shouted at the top of his voice, his eyes traveling over his Cohort, hearing the rest of the Centurions repeating his words. The men hurried on the construction of a rampart along the Rhone, a job that had seen them sweating for over a month. An endless symphony of groans and moans followed his order along with exclamations of joy and complains about that hard day's work.

_This is a waste of time_ —Marcus cleared his throat and tightened his _focale_, his scarf, around his neck; the locals could insist all they wanted that it was spring and that they were enjoying hot sunny days, but for him the air was chilly, mornings froze his spirit and nights became a horror of cold fingers. He truly failed to appreciate the hot weather—. _I've gone soft after so many years in Asia_ —the legionaries carried their tools and equipment, heading back to the camp like a long centipede of whispers, vain hopes of an extra ration of food and promises of dice games around the fires. There were times when Marcus missed to be a simple _miles_ _gregarious_ (3), just following orders and not worrying for nothing more than duty and staying alive.

— What a job, sir —said Scaeva, striding to him, kicking a rock standing in his way. Either he didn't feel the cold or was extremely good hiding his discomfort—. Any idea how long is going to be the rampart, sir?

— The Pro-consul's (4) orders were to fortify the southern bank for a distance of eighteen miles between the Lake of Geneva and the Jura, just in the frontier with the Sequani —the _Pilus Prior_ Centurion explained—. We are almost finished.

In his opinion the rampart was as useless as ships in the desert—. _If Caesar is thinking to deny the Helvetii safe passage through Narbonensis then we should attack them. And, if he is thinking to let them cross, why bother with the rampart? Caesar is playing to be a soldier and has no idea of what to do with the Gauls_ —Marcus had seen the _Celtiberians_ fight, he knew that this people called Celts were ferocious warriors, raised in the glory of the battlefield. And Gauls were no different, if anything even more brutal and terrible—. _And with such a commander as ours the Gauls are very likely to crush us as they did in the Battle of Burdigala_ —but before everything Marcus was a soldier, and a damn good one, so he didn't question orders and, more importantly, he didn't voice complains before his subordinates.

A gust of wind chilled Marcus' blood, making him cursed under his breath. He hated cold, it always brought him bad memories, making his heart ache and his soul tremble. His eyes moved from his men, marching in a monotonous rhythm, to the clear orange sky, bathing the woods in gold, looking as if it were on fire. It was getting dark.

_Do you believe in lemurs? Do you think they rise at night to haunt the living?_

Secundus' words resounded in his head, echoing in his very core—. _No Secundus, I don't believe lemurs can haunt the living, but I think words can_ —Marcus didn't want to think about him, not today, not again. If he could only rip out his heart and throw it to the flames, watch it burn along with his all his dreams, what a relief that would be! But Gods robe him of even the slightest respite—. _I'm not a boy anymore, shouldn't be dreaming awake, but I need a sign _—he sighed.

— Sir, are you coming back? —Scaeva was uncomfortable with that strange silence, like an armor that had covered his superior officer, protecting him from the world around them, setting him apart. Marcus appeared to wake up then, a strange look on his dark eyes.

— Go first, I'll catch you later —and without further explanations Marcus walked back to the works on the rampart, ignoring the voice inside him screaming: danger! Scaeva shook his head, there were many things he didn't understand about his _Pilus Prior_ but he would be damn before asking. There was nothing he could do except barked to the men, hurrying them to go back to the safety of their walls knowing perfectly well it was a very bad idea to stay outside in enemy territory, rampart or no rampart.

**Oo0oO**

Marcus walked alone, at the riverbank, with no direction and no idea of what he was doing. It was foolishness, all his fighting years had taught him just how moronic was the idea of leaving the camp alone and at night, but he longed to be alone, surrounded by nothing but silence, with nothing but darkness and shadows as his companions. It suited him, since _that_ day he become another person, one he didn't like and one he couldn't recognize—. _It was my fault_. _Why did I have to open my mouth?_ —Marcus sighed. He felt so tired, so empty—. _I lied to Scaeva_ —he hadn't come back because he missed the Legions, he came back because he had nothing else to live for.

It was all so simple and yet so difficult to accept. He had started that fight at the wine shop because he wanted to die—. _I don't know where else to go, I don't know what to do, please I need a sign, something, anything_…—Marcus prayed even if he didn't know exactly to whom. He was no longer a boy then, why did it hurt so badly? He shouldn't be complaining, he had so much to be grateful, and step by step his situation in the Legion was improving, his men were learning to trust him, and all in all he had a blessed life, but couldn't enjoy it—. _Secundus cursed me_ —in a way, he truly had.

**Oo0oO**

Despite the late hour, Julius rode accompanied by his 11 _lictors_ along the rampart the Tenth Legion had built. Even if this wall was not as tall as a camp's fortifications, with only 16 feet high, was enough to discourage any attempt of the Helvetians to cross by force—. _A rampart, a trench running parallel with redoubts at intervals along the fortification and garrison with pickets, it should be enough to stop the Helvetii or an enterprising warrior. And to try to cross with women and children is absolutely out of the question_ —he nodded. Part one of his plan was working perfectly—. _Fortifications in order and now 1 Legion and auxiliary troops in camp_ —Julius had arrived an hour ago with auxiliary cohorts of fresh recruits from Narbonensis after marching the poor boys like a slave driver—. _Not bad_ —he was strong enough to make demands from the Helvetians without the risk of being killed by an angry mob with torches and forks… or something worst.

The cold merciless air hit his skin but Julius was too concentrated to pay it any attention. The Rhone was a wide and deep river, with a strong current and prone to overflow, especially in spring and summer when the ice on the mountains melted—. _Which is not at all bad since the river will serve as another obstacle for the Helvetii_ —he mused. At Rome people liked to think there was no better place than their own land but, watching that sight unfolding before him, a forest wounded by a river of blue-greenish water, like a mirror for the sky, washed by the last orange rays of the dying sun, he understood perfectly well why the Gauls had chosen to establish here.

Again the wind, raising gusts like the edge of a sword, give him goosebumps and made his hair dance before his eyes; it carried the smell of grass and humidity, the smell of a forest old before time, of mysteries hidden down in the earth. The Gauls believed forests and caves were sacred places, that here they could hear their Gods and feel their presence… Could it be? What if the wind had voice, what would it said? What secrets could unfold for mortals from far beyond this world?

_But the wind has voice and sometimes it appears to sing. You just have to pay attention, and stay still_ —Julius heard a horse's steps approaching.

— Pro-consul, we should go back, it's getting dark —said Servius, the _primus lictor_.

A magister with _imperium_ had the right to have _lictors_ to attend and protect him, the number varied depending on the office, a Consul had a right for 12 _lictors_ while a mere Quaestor had only 1. More often than not it was possible for the magister to choose his own lictors, which had been the case of Servius. He had been at Julius' side since he was chosen Pro-praetor at Hispania Ulterior almost 4 years ago and, since then, the now Pro-consul had always asked for his services.

— Are you afraid of the dark, Servius? —it was a strange question, whispered by an even stranger silky smooth voice. To whom was Julius talking? Was he voicing his own fears? He didn't even know himself, and before his heart beat twice Julius knew it had been a mistake to voice his thoughts.

— Sir?

— I'll be staying here for a moment.

— Forgive me Pro-consul but, is it wise? —Servius wanted to believe he had heard wrong—. We are in enemy territory —he reminded him, changing his _fascis_ and axes from one shoulder to the other. Their axes in the _lictors'_ _fascis _were the bound bundle of wooden rods they carried to signify their rank and the power they had to execute and could only be use outside Rome, outside the _pomerium_, the sacred boundary of the city and were the clearest symbol of the Pro-consul's authority over life and death.

_Wise? Maybe not, but I want…I need to be alone for a moment, just a moment_ —of course that wasn't something he would admit, it was a weakness—. _We all have weaknesses, the trick is to know how to hide them and make them look like strengths_.

— You and your men can wait me here, I'll be back before you start to miss me —that was an order, Servius had served Julius long enough to know when it was useless to insist and now was a good time to close his mouth.

— Yes, sir —no mattered how dangerous Servius thought was the whole situation, he didn't have other choice but to do as he was told… and pray nothing happen to the Pro-consul.

He sighed.

**Oo0oO**

Julius rode alone time enough to be alone but close enough to return with his _lictors_ if anything happened. The orange light was beginning to dissolve on the sky like a drop of paint in water and soon night would establish its domain over the world—. _The night_ —Julius had heard that Gauls didn't measure time by counting days but by counting nights, a people who thought themselves descendants of Death Gods, who felt no fear of death because their priests, the ones known as Druids, taught the soul was immortal and death was not the end but the continuation of another life—. _Strange people…_—Julius dismounted and walked along the rampart, running his fingers over the rough surface, hearing nothing but the constant lulling running of the Rhone.

_It's so peaceful that's almost incredible to think that more than 300, 000 hairy Helvetians are camped on the other side_ —this was the first moment of peace Julius enjoyed since he left Rome more than a month now. In Narbonensis he hadn't lose time in organizing his provinces and calling a _dilectus_ for new auxiliary cohorts, and then he had returned as soon as possible—. _And tomorrow I'll receive again the Helvetian embassy_ —he was tired, so tired. Only in the complete loneliness he could allow himself a moment of debility. He closed his eyes, his entire body throbbing, his heartbeat against his temples, threatening to become a headache. He didn't feel well, dizzy and weak. When had been the last time he ate?

The wind blew with renewed force, his cloak cracking at his back like a whip, leaves and grass flying around him and Julius turned, his hand shielding his eyes, trying to protect them from Zephyrus' fury—. _I should go back_ —he thought, feeling his head heavy and his legs trembling, weakness washing over him like the morning sun. Julius' opened his eyes as the wind dispersed and calmed: a man was standing in front of him—. _The enemy?_

That was exactly the same question in Marcus' mind when he found Julius, standing so close to the rampart, coming from nowhere like those visions men used to have in the middle of the desert—. _But that's not possible, how could the enemy cross the Rhone and climb without been notice?_ —still, Marcus didn't let his guard down, he hadn't survived all these years in vain, and closed the distance between them with the hand on the hilt of his _gladius_. It was getting dark. The gusts hit him again, he was closer and, when the wind finally subsided, he was able to see the man clearly.

He froze on his spot.

_There you are_

_finally the answer_

_Take my hand_

_never release the sweetness, the magic, and happiness I've found in you._

(_Late Night Alumni_, Beautiful)

Marcus had no idea who he was but, when Julius open his eyes, watching him directly, he forgot how to talk, how to think, how to move…—. _It's not possible_… —he had heard Greek stories of Gods taking human form to dwell among the mortals but had never thought for a moment they could be true…until now. This man, whoever he was, didn't belong here; this was a dark world where the earth fed upon the blood of men, a place for men of hearts of stone. Every fiber of his body trembled and shuddered—. _Is this the sign I pray for?_ —should he say something? He had to! But what? What does one say in front of perfection? And Marcus, for the first time in many years, felt truly scared, lost.

_A Centurion?_ —Julius wasn't alarmed, just curious to see one of his men so far from the camp, alone and looking as if the _lemur_ of his dead mother had suddenly appeared. He felt weaker and weaker but ignored the feeling, as he always did, thinking himself over trifles such as his health, and opened his mouth when everything turned black, the nothing calling him into it's embrace…

Marcus ran at his side and caught Julius just before he hit the ground—. _By Pollux! He is so…_ —he found himself immersed in the vision resting in his arms: the locks of Julius' silky hair brushing his pale cheeks, covering his eyes, his lips slightly parted, a silent invitation to be kissed. Marcus gulped; his hand resting on Julius' arm tickled, that skin! Soft like spring flowers, asking to be touched. Inside him raised the need to worship that slender body with his caresses, to drink from those lips…and Marcus moved closer, like a sailor trapped in a mermaid's song. He was so close. Julius' breathing hit his suddenly hot skin and his soul ached.

Just a little more, he just had to move closer to claim the elixir before him….

Marcus stopped and shook his head. It wasn't right—. _It would be so easy to steal a kiss…_—like a thief in the dark, stealing from a sacred temple, he felt despicable and low. Fortunately or unfortunately for him, he was too honest to do such a thing, and Marcus forced himself to wake up from the beautiful dream that had enchanted him that strange night of full moon beyond the boarders of the Roman provinces. He wanted to slap himself but his hands refused to leave Julius' skin—. _This is wrong in so many ways_ —not to mention extremely dangerous.

When he lifted his head had no idea where he was, how long had he been there and, more importantly, he had no idea of what to do—. _Think Marcus, think_ —but one look again at that sleeping face made him forgot even his own name. Marcus lifted his head—. _No. I have to focus…and hurry back because now it's truly dark as Pluto' domains_ —and with that in mind he carried Julius in arms, his blond head on his shoulder, and his listless weight against his body… and he loved that feeling.

The cold was forgotten in an instant as a hot rush took over his body—. _He is so warm_ —and heavy despite his slender figure, but that was the last thought in his head, spellbound as he was, surrounded by a romantic atmosphere that transformed reality into a pleasant perfect dream where nothing could go wrong. Marcus walked back to camp, following the same path his men took, half thinking what to do with his beautiful stranger and half admiring him, his delicate features and graceful form; it was so easy to get lost following the curves of his face like chasing a nymph into the dark forest, blooming with secrets and hidden dangers. His blond-orange hair tickled his neck and Julius, his presence, his essence, invaded all his senses—. _I've gone mad_ —the worst part was he didn't care.

Marcus didn't know how long he walked with Julius in his arms or how far they were from the camp, but at some point Julius started to wake up, his golden eyelashes trembling before opening his eyes—. _Where am I?_ —Julius was a mess of questions and lost memories; he was tired, his arms and legs heavy as river stones, his head felt 3 times its size, and he had no idea of what had happened—. _I should take this easy _—he took a deep, soft breath—._ What's the last thing I remember?_ —Servius, his _lictors_, the rampart, his throbbing body, the wind…—. _The Centurion!_ —he lifted his head and immediately cursed the fast movement that only served to increase his dizziness, forcing him to close his eyes.

— Are you all right? —asked the Centurion, stopping. It took Marcus by surprise to find his stranger awake and all his might to keep his voice steady.

_Do I look all right to you?_ —Julius was very tempted to answer but instead he lied.

— Yes —_wait a minute, why am I being carried on arms like a girl?_ Now he was angry and very close to start screaming his name, rank, and looong list of ancestors, but that was not proper of him (and the Gods knew how hard he had worked to build his reputation of cold, selfish, emotionless, ambitious bastard to throw everything away in a moment). And so he swallowed indignation the best he could—. I can walk, there's no need to carry me.

What voice! Raspy soft, appearing to caress each word before letting it go, almost purring. Marcus had never heard anything like it and again found himself trapped in an enchantment that refused to let him go.

— Are you sure?

_What's wrong with this guy? Of course I'm freaking sure!_ —Julius nodded and with all reluctance Marcus put him down. It soon became obvious this was a terrible idea. Julius' knees trembled, unable to support him, and he was very close to fall if it hadn't been for Marcus' arm around his waist. His strong body against his fragile self, overpowering him…

— Shush, it's all right… Shush…

And that proved to be the straw that broke the camel.

— Let me go —Julius' voice changed, no longer full of confidence, in perfect control of his emotions. This was his real self. He pushed Marcus and the Centurion let him go without resistance—. Let me go…—he asked without force. Weak, he was so weak, and the feeling repulsed him. Julius tried to walk but his knees trembled so badly that he was very close to fall.

— You can't walk —Marcus took him again, this time by the arm with a strong but gentle grip—. I won't hurt you.

— Don't talk to me as if I were a woman.

— Then don't act like one.

Ouch! These were worst than a slap on the face and his words were so incredible for Julius that it took him a while before being able to answer. Nobody talked to him like that and Julius found himself unable to restrain his temper, exploding as only Camillus had ever witnessed, forgetting about everything and letting himself be. He pulled his arm free.

— Is it your hobby to pick up strangers and insult them? —he rested his right hand against his forehead, closing one eye, still dizzy, and in the silver light of the full moon Marcus was able to see the heavy golden ring in his finger.

— You are a _patrician_ —the revelation didn't surprised him as much as one would have expected, somehow he knew that such arrogance could only come from a member of the ruling, aristocratic and noble class of Rome. Marcus almost laughed.

_I'm a fool, how was I didn't notice?_ —the answer hit him like a rock: he was too distracted to notice a ring.

— Good-bye —Julius turned and walked to where he could hear the sound of the river, thinking that with a little luck he would be able to find his horse and go back with his _lictors_. _Servius must be looking for me_. Marcus laughed without humor.

— Really? Is it so bad to be saved by someone like me? —he too was starting to get angry.

— Saved? —Julius stopped and turned to look at him, his aquamarine eyes shining with an intensity that soon caught Marcus' fascination once more—. Please, explain me, saved me from what exactly?

— You passed out —and those simple words insulted him more than everything Cato had ever said in the Senate.

_Why am I so upset?_ —he knew the answer and didn't like it. This time he didn't say a word, turned and kept walking ignoring the Centurion, striding as fast as his weakness allowed him, wanting nothing more but to be back with his escort and rest in the camp—. _I shouldn't have come to the Rhone alone and I shouldn't have spend so many hours without food _—and Julius was so distracted in his own thoughts that not even once considered in asking Marcus the only logical question he completely overlooked: who was he.

And Marcus thought the same thing once Julius was out of sigh and his tempered had cooled down with the help of the freezing wind—. _I never asked his name_ —he stood there for a moment, hearing nothing but a cricket playing for an invisible audience, until his feet finally decided to move again—. _I wonder if I would ever see him again?_

* * *

(1) Suetonius. _The Twelve Caesars: Divus Julius_. Penguin Classics Editions, p 21 and 22

(2) Plutarch. _The Fall of the Roman Republic: Life of Caesar_. Penguin Classics Editions, p 271

(3) _Miles gregarious_: common foot soldier, soldier of the ranks.

(4) Pro-consul: governor.

(5) Nobody really knows what affliction Caesar had. The ancient sources said it was "epilepsy" but what the people of the BC understood as epilepsy is very different from what we know. Now, just as Dr. John R. Hughes states in his article _Dictator Perpetuus: Julius Caesar—Did he have seizures? If so, what was the etiology?_ The only thing we know for a fact is that the poor man had seizures, but you can have seizures thanks to lots of causes: brain tumor, strong blow on the head, syphilis, neurocysticercosis, hypoglycemia and so on; and the truth is we'll never know what Caesar had because for that we'll have to take Caesar to the hospital for a medical check up.

For this story I chose hypoglycemia because, well, I have hypoglycemia.


	6. The Helvetii Pt IV

—**Caput IV—**

* * *

Personal charisma doubtless played a role in Caesar's swift emergence to fame. But this success story required more than charm and flash. Connections of an unusual variety, quality, and effectiveness, sedulously cultivated, and positions taken that appealed across a broad spectrum must be included in the reckoning. Caesar followed no formulaic line that would place him consistently in one political camp or another. Nor does it help to apply labels such as _popularis_, "anti-Sullan", or indeed "outsider." […]

Caesar repeatedly took positions on matters of significance for the civic well-being of the polity. He argued conspicuously for reviving institutions that had been weakened in the Sullan years and restoring privileges that had been stripped from the victims of Sulla. This was no mere championing of the "Marians" against the "Sullans." Caesar eludes simplistic political labels. Nor is it to be interpreted as advocacy of the "popular" against the "senatorial." The need to bid up the wounds left by civil war in the 80s was paramount. (1)

* * *

It never ceased to amaze Julius how a good meal and a 4 hours of sleep could bring him back to life. His body complained when he try to stand up next morning, his bed conspiring with his pillow to retain him against his will but Julius had lots to do and no time to lose and ignored his tiredness and sore thighs after the rough march to reach the Rhone. As the morning sun rose high on the sky he began to work, hearing the calling to the change of watch around the camp, wailing at the distance like a wounded animal. He ate his breakfast with one hand and held his letters with the other. He ate without hurry what other men of his own class and station, would have considered food worth only of a slave.

_Every man has his own vices, mine is not food nor wine_ —Lucius Licinius Lucullus would have drop death watching what Julius put in his mouth, famous as he was for spending in one meal what small towns would have considered a fortune. His aquamarine eyes traveled over the parchment with Camillus' words. His slave Niketas sat in front of him with a wax tablet a stylus, finishing an urgent message to his master's cousin Lucius Julius Caesar and unable to come out from the shock of seeing that his new master was able to read and dictate (and eat) at the same time without missing a word.

… You have to be careful, since you left your friends at the Senate started to look for a reason to invalidate all your actions during your Consulship. Since Bibulus decided last year to spend his nights and days looking for bad omens while you were actually working, your admirer Cato is arguing that all your acts were illegal. So far he haven't achieve anything thanks to your son-in-law and Crassus but I wouldn't be so confident that everything "is going to be fine" if I were you. Keep an eye open.

I can't say things changed much around here they are just duller. Clodius has our dear Chickpea (2) terrified of him and your son-in-law is doing nothing of importance, still happily living a dreamed honey moon; we have always known Pompeius is a hen-pecked but honestly, your daughter has him eating from her hand, which is absolutely hilarious to see.

You know? I truly missed the Consulship of Julius and Caesar with your flashy appearances and bombastic speeches, specially that time when the plebs threw out your colleague Bibulus from the Forum, breaking his _fasces_... Oh! That truly made me laughed. Bibulus indignation was worth of a Plautus' play, hysterically screaming like a vegetable market woman: "Kill me, kill me." Can you imagine that? Plautus writing about Bibulus? Mm, let's think of a title: _Bibulacator_ just that instead of falling in love with Pasicompsa Bibulus fell in love with Cato and now has no idea of how to explain it to his father (3)…

Despite of himself Julius laughed, almost chocking with his bread—. _Idiot_ —he smiled, taking a sip of water. How he missed Camus!— _If only he wasn't so fond of eating and so picky with blood, mud and sweat, he would have been here, as one of my_ legati —that was such a hilarious idea that Julius almost laugh again—. _Whoever said Romans were aggressive warmongers never met Camus _—it always amused Julius to think how was that Rome evolved: first the Spartans had enjoyed for years the fame of being invincible on the battlefield…until Nabis the Tyrant of Sparta surrendered the city to Titus Quinctius Flamininus. Then, Macedon had been the proud owner of the _non plus ultra_ of all armies… until Flamininus and Lucius Aemilius Paullus defeated them repeatedly.

Rome truly never surrendered and never gave up until an enemy was utterly vanquished and never signed a treaty where they wouldn't be able to impose their will over their foe. "Once Rome began a war, they only considered it ended once: they had crushed their rival to the point of destroying it, they conquered it or at least until Rome was able to impose over it severely conditions" (4).

Rome had resisted the attacks of Pyrrhus of Epirus.

Rome was sacked by the Gauls, almost destroyed, and rose on its feet again.

Rome never gave up during the First Punic War, not even when the Carthaginians kept destroying their fleets, defeat after defeat, Rome always stood up again and again, tirelessly building more ships.

Hannibal tried to bend Rome but despite the disaster at Cannae Rome did not surrender and fought for 14 years until Hannibal was destroyed at Zama.

Rome was not an undefeated champion but was the best and always fought to the end.

Always.

_But Camus never had a liking for war and only did his military service because he had no other choice, which was a nightmare for all, for him and everybody around him. His _Legatus_ sent him back home just to stop hearing his constant complains…not that I blame him_ —Julius chewed his food and Niketas tried his best to stop making faces while watching him devouring a hideous bread and cheese with plain water.

— Do you disapprove my breakfast, Niketas? —the boy jumped, not expecting his master would notice him, after all, who pays attention to a mere slave?

— My opinion is not important, _domine_ —he reacted quickly, his eyes low in feigned humility.

— Do you know why you are here? —asked Julius successfully confusing him. Niketas was there because his master had asked him to take dictation while he finished his breakfast (Julius didn't have time to waste) Why was he asking this now? _Oh, Gods, please don't tell me he is mad_.

— You asked me to come, _domine_ —he answered doubtfully and Julius laughed without noise. That was their first day of sun and the air was warm for a change, something Niketas welcomed, especially since his master appeared to be allergic to bad odors and demanded to open every door and window of the _praetorium_ not caring if his people freeze to death.

— Yes, of course —Julius put the letter aside, cocking his head against the back of his hand—. What I mean is, have you wonder why you are here instead of a body slave?

_A thousand times!_ —he was a librarian boy who couldn't tell the pointy end of the sword from the hilt, why he was in a military camp beat the hell out of him. But of course he wasn't going to say that.

— _Domine_, my place is at your side —this time Julius' smile was huge, reaching his eyes, sincerely amused.

— You are smart and a good liar… no, don't bother —Julius stopped him before he could deny the evident—. I usually don't explain my actions but this time is important —Niketas watched him with all his attention—. I need a good secretary, someone who knows his letters because I always have tons of correspondence to read and answer and Marcus Crassus said you are good at it —Niketas felt the color rising on his cheeks—. I don't have time to waste dragging a big entourage behind me and, at least until all my things and slaves are settled at Narbonensis, you'll have to attend your duties and me —he softened his slightly husky voice—. I'll need your help; can I count on you?

The question stunned him like a blow with a stone. What had he just said? It was the first time someone asked Niketas about…anything! And certainly it was the first time a free man…and a _patrician_ on top of that! Asked for his help. He was in shock and it took him several beats of his heart to remember how to speak again until…

— Yes, _domine_…of-of course…—he stammered, in an instant forgetting all the bad things he ever thought about his new master.

— Good! —Julius finally ended his breakfast—. Then, let's continue before the Helvetii arrive. Did you finish Lucius Julius' letter?

— Yes, _domine_.

— Now, let's see. I need to write to Pompeius —Niketas prepared himself—. I need to know what happened with Cicero, last thing I heard was Clodius successfully forced him into exile and I need details… —_although maybe I should write Camus for that, his last letter arrived with days of delay and Gods knew a tree can't lose a leaf in Rome without his knowledge_. Julius would ask both, better safe than sorry, besides, Cicero was a friend of Pompeius so he trusted his son-in-law would know something useful. Niketas wasn't sure if his master was talking to him or just voicing his own thoughts, but either way he decided to take the risk and ask…

— Why was _domine_ Cicero forced into exile? Wasn't he Consul years ago? —and everybody knew that former Consuls became a form of high nobility in Rome, respected as the _Penates_ of a Roman house and always sought for their supposedly wisdom and honorability.

— You may know the Iliad by heart but have no idea about Roman politics, don't you? —Niketas blushed savagely—. How old are you?

— 17, _domine_…

— Mm, that explains it —Niketas frowned even if Julius' voice was perhaps too conversational to be talking with a slave—. Do you know who Lucius Sergius Catilina was?

— I heard that name at _domine_ Crassus' house —the first time it had been during a strange night 5 years ago. Niketas remembered thinking why would someone come so late with a letter for his master; and Crassus had looked as preoccupied as he had never seen him, talking with his elder soon in hushed voices where only the name "Catilina" could be understood. His master had demanded his cloak and left his house shortly after with his older son, muttering as if he were praying, "he lost his mind"—. He was a rebel.

_Was he? A resentful and frustrated man who became a rebel would be better_ —but he said nothing.

— Not exactly…

— Gaius Julius, this is the only way, Rome is corrupted, power in the hands of few, and desperately needs a change —Catilina had spoke with a passion many found contagious, like a sickness spreading easily, consuming its host with a burning desire. It was no surprise then that young men and teenagers followed him like a moth the flame, easily influenced, easily fooled with gifts and sweet promises, especially the ones who were allergic to hard work and wanted to be rich and famous without moving a finger. And Catilina knew how to be charming, like an Asian snake charmer. Handsome and intelligent, a dangerous combination when it came without scruples.

— And you are the man Rome needs? —Julius was terribly uncomfortable in Catilina's house, a place usually associated by people (although not without a little exaggeration) with decadence and immorality, but that was something you would never know by his demeanor; behaving as if he were at home and the slaves around him his own servants.

— Why not? —he smiled with self-sufficiency—. I'm a _patrician_ of one of the most ancient families, or are you suggesting that a _homo novus_ like insufferable Cicero is more apt to save the Republic than me?

— And the fact that you have been unable to obtain the consulship by legal means has nothing to do with this, I guess —Julius was being cynical and that irritated the other. Obviously this wasn't the reaction Catilina was looking, used to easily impressionable young men (or easily corruptible old men) was clearly angry by Julius' attitude, hitting the table between them, sending the glasses flying to the floor. Julius didn't even flinch.

— What is wrong with you? For years few men had held the most important positions in the Republic, enriching themselves shamelessly; just remember what happened with Jugurtha —said Catilina, talking about the Numidian King who had became the bone of contention between Marius and Sulla more than 48 years ago—. Roman Consuls like Bestia and even Senators of high renown like Scaurus were bought by Jugurtha, BOUGHT! Romans of the noblest birth, stretching a war that should have ended even before it started with Numidian gold, until…

— Until _my uncle_ Gaius Marius ended the war. Thanks for the history lesson —Julius was starting to understand what the other thinking was but wanted to be sure—. What's your point?

— My point is: what about you and me?

— What about us? —Julius played the dumb.

— We are the same: both from patrician families of renown, both heavily indebted and both doom to be in the shadows, denied the glory we deserved, our birth right.

— So, basically you are complaining because Bestia enriched himself with Jugurtha's gold but we are denied that chance, is that it? —his conversational voice, slightly derisive but pleasant and calm, as if talking about the weather, was ending with Catilina's patience.

— No. What I am saying is we are denied the chance to do something for Rome —Catilina took his arm with force—. You want to be _Pontifex Maximus_, "they" will never let you, not when men like Publius Servilius Isauricus and Quintus Lutatius Catulus are running for the same office, both ex-consuls and, compared with you, so called prominent men —he tried to hold Julius' gaze but failed—. Join me and you'll be _Pontifex Maximus_.

Julius laughed, a rich and sincerely laugh, as if he had never heard anything funnier and thus ruining the seriousness of the moment.

— You will give it to me? _You_? —Catilina was not happy, and suddenly not as handsome as before—. I'm fine on my own, thank you so much for your concern.

— You'll regret this. Important men are backing me, men like Marcus Crassus —that made him laugh again.

— No, I don't think so —Julius answered with all calm and impudence—. Perhaps you find this cheap trick of engrossing your numbers using the names of important Senators useful when treating with men of limited understanding like Cethegus, but only a fool would believe a man like Marcus Crassus is with you in this freak-show of a plan —he stood up, releasing his arm—. I have an idea of what you are planning Lucius Sergius, and honestly I don't think you'll have a happy ending.

It was as if Julius were able to see Catilina again, standing in front of him with his arrogant smile, confident ways and carefree spirit that ultimately cost him his life—. _Lucius Sergius sought my help but from the beginning his plans were doom to fail_. _He didn't want to "save the Republic" he was angry because didn't know how to play the game and so wanted to change the rules. Besides, nobody can save the Republic, it was condemned to die in the same moment Rome became an empire_.

— 5 years ago Cicero accused Lucius Sergius of being the leader of a conspiracy to overthrow the government, although what he and his associates were really looking for was to a general cancellation of debts since they all owed even their underwear to the creditors —Julius explained, resting his arms on the table—. And Cicero convinced the Senate to execute 5 of his followers, free Roman citizens, Senators —something Julius never approved, not then, not now. _Cicero was a fool, the _Senatus Consultum Ultimum_, the Final Decree of the Senate, gave him the power to act as he saw fit, even the power and authority to execute Roman citizens without a trial, but it was a mistake_. And so he had voiced this opinion that day…

— "Every bad precedent has arisen from some good circumstance; but, when command passes to those ignorant of it or to the less good, any new precedent is transferred from the deserving and appropriate to the undeserving and inappropriate […] I do not fear these things in Marcus Tullius' case nor in these times, but in a great community dispositions are many and varied. It is possible that, at another time and under another Consul in whose hands there is likewise an army, something false will be believe to be true. When after this precedent a Consul draws his sword in accordance with a Senate's decree, who will decide the ending for him, who will restrain him?" (5) —he remembered that day in the Senate as if it had been yesterday, but then again his memory was perfect and Julius didn't forget a thing.

He had pledged for these men to be spared, condemned to spend the rest of their lives in chains in the municipalities with their properties confiscated. He didn't do it out of love for them but to avoid creating a bad precedent, something no one understood. And Julius would have succeeded in this if it hadn't been for Cato and his speech about how their ancestor made Rome great by the force of arms and by being implacable and how they couldn't forgive such a crime as to raise arms against Rome and _blah, blah, blah_—. _Sadly but I'm sure one day they will regret that decision. _

— He was like you —had been Camillus' words when they heard the news of Catilina's death at the battle of Pistoria.

— Excuse me? —Julius asked indignant and surprised by Camillus' statement—. Whatever you are smoking Camus, leave it. In what world was Lucius Sergius like me?

— You are even more stupid than I thought —Camillus sighed and counted with his fingers—. Both _patricians_…

— You and I are _patricians_.

— Indebted.

— Half of Rome is indebted, even Marcus Crassus or Pompeius have debts.

— Handsome, charming, intelligent with a strong personality, a supernatural ability to make others do as you want, ambitious —Camillus smiled—. Do you need more?

— Camus, you have just described Sulla —Julius crossed his arms over his chest—. And I can find even more people who match that description.

— So, are you saying you are not as special as you think you are?

— Don't be absurd, of course I'm special —Julius said as if his friend had asked if the sky was blue—. What I am saying is the Roman elite are educated to be like that: ambitious and always looking to be the best. But both, Sulla and Lucius Sergius failed in the same thing.

— And what's that, genius?

— They couldn't understand Rome, they tried to play the game of politics and didn't understand the rules. Sulla tried and for a time it appeared as he knew what he was doing and Lucius Sergius never had a clue.

— Do you think Lucius Sergius planned from the beginning an armed rebellion?

— No. I think he wanted a change but didn't know how to accomplish it and, at the end, the Senate didn't give him a choice and his friend Manlius, who was too eager for a battle, ill-advised him. Like Scipio the _Africanus_, after all his successes, after defeating Hannibal, at the end the Senate forced him into exile.

— Did you just compare Lucius Sergius with the _Africanus_? —Camillus was in shock. Catilina, the man accused of killing his own son in order to marry Aurelia Orestilla, the man accused of defiling a Vestal Virgin compared with Publius Cornelius Scipio the _Africanus_, the man who saved Rome and successfully ended the Second Punic War?

— No, not them, their circumstances… and I'm not like Lucius Sergius.

— Whatever.

— _Domine_ —Niketas brought him back to the present—, what happened at that time, is the reason why _domine_ Clodius forced _domine_ Cicero out of Rome?

— You are clever —Julius confirmed with satisfaction, making the boy beamed as if it were his birthday—. Clodius prosecuted Cicero precisely for executing Roman citizens without a trial, despite Cicero acting under the authority of the Senate, and, before the jury reached a verdict, Cicero decided to go to exile, or so I heard, that's why I need more information —but Niketas still had a lot of questions and so he pushed his luck a little more.

— _Domine_, do you think _domine_ Clodius was right? It was right to prosecute _domine_ Cicero?

— I think it was a mistake to use the _Senatum Consultum Ultimum_ —he avoided to give him a direct answer—. I said it once and I said it again, its power can be misused, it creates a precedent that threatens the rights of the Roman citizens and one day it will backfired the Senate —Niketas opened his mouth again, ready to ask more now that his _domine_ was in such a chatty mood but…

— The Helvetii are here —announced a man Niketas recognized as Titus Atius Labienus, a man that always gave him the creeps.

Labienus was the same age as the Pro-consul, not as tall as he, with midnight hair, disturbing dark eyes, like crows' wings, and a feral smile that made him look like a beast ready to strike. He was a staunch supporter of Pompeius and had met Julius during his term as Tribune of the Plebs. In fact it had been thanks to Julius' advices that Labienus had ended prosecuting Gaius Rabirius, a very old man and a relic of old and bloody times that had taken part in the assassination of Lucius Appuleius Saturninus, a demagogue of the times of Gaius Marius and Lucius Cornelius Sulla.

This story had been a curious one. Once upon a time, the same year Julius was born, Rome was under the influence of a man named Saturninus, whose power over the common people was as outstanding as terrifying, so the Senate, that at the time had no idea of what to do with Saturninus, decided to use the _Senatus Consultum Ultimum_, and called a savior, giving Gaius Marius the order to defend Rome by all means necessary (literarily). So Marius forced Saturninus and his followers into the _Curia_ and there this guy Rabirius and others kill them all by climbing to the roof and throwing the tiles over them.

What was the point of prosecuting Rabirius for a crime committed when Julius was born? To show the Senate the fragility of the _Senatus Consultum Ultimum_, to show them they could not go against the plebs by force and that sooner or later, the consequences of their actions would come back to haunted like _Lemurs_—. _Just as it has just happened to Cicero_ —and this whole trial against Rabirius had also served to meet Labienus and to count him among his friends—. _Convenient friends, he is a good commander and would be of great help here_ —he had just one friend, and judging by what he knew of him, he must be eating under the shade attended by an army of slaves.

— They arrived early —Julius stood up—. I suppose the Helvetii are eager to know my decision.

— Which of course is to deny them safe passage and force them to fight —Labienus smiled and Niketas wished he hadn't.

— Why are you so sure? —Julius was amused.

— One doesn't gather so many men here just to see a bunch of barbarians happily crossing through the province —Labienus took an apple from the table and bit it. The juice ran freely down his chin.

— Great! You save me long, boring explanations —and Julius left the room, indicating Niketas to come with them with his stylus.

_Soon I'll need more than just 4 Legions but, how am I going to pay them? Where am I going to find four million sesterces per legion, per annum?_ —Julius had the Senate's permission to levy troops…but the Senate had only agreed to pay for 4 Legions, if he wanted 2 or 10 more, he would have to pay them from his own and indebted pocket—. _I'll think of something, first things first_ —he'll talk to the Helvetii and then organized the defense of the river—. _Because I can bet my own head that they'll try to cross the river by force_ —he had to call his _primi ordines_ soon— _The_ primi ordines…—and then his mind took him back to the night before and to the mysterious Centurion who had found him at the Rhone. Julius almost blushed in anger.

There were few things that could enrage him more than to feel exposed and defenseless, like a leaf at the wind's mercy: to show his weaknesses to others. No one should know him, the real Julius, no one should know how to hurt him, how to bend him. Julius liked to control, others and himself, not to become a marionette of people, of feelings or vices… and that Centurion had not only found him in his worst moment, he had removed inside him his worst memory—. _I wonder who he was_ —what was he going to do if he ever saw the Centurion again? — _One problem at a time_.

**Oo0oO**

— This is outrageous! —Verucloetius exclaimed at the top of his voice as soon as the slave finished translating the Pro-consul's refusal; his face turning into an unhealthy purple and his hair standing on end. Niketas, taking notes in a corner, truly believed the Helvetian was going to destroy the tent—. We are not looking to establish ourselves in Roman lands, we are just asking for free passage.

— You are asking for the impossible. I can't let the same people responsible for the massacre of Lucius Cassius and his army at Burdigala to cross through the Roman province —Julius spoke without raising his voice full of authority and in perfect calm, which only served to make the whole scene even more bizarre with Verucloetius about to explode in bloody rage—. Nobody can assure me that people as you, so devoted to the path of war, would refrain from damaging our people and property.

— This is insulting! We didn't have to come here in the first place, we could very well just cross through your lands with, as you said, our people devoted to war, but, if we came it was just out of consideration. We outnumber your men and with or without your permission we'll continue our march —Verucloetius spoke with bravery and Nammeius knew by his companions' faces they all thought the same—. There are no better warriors than the Helvitii and soon you'll eat your words and curse this day.

— The same was said of the Teutones and the Cimbri, so called invincible, and it was my uncle, Gaius Marius, who showed them the worth of a Roman legionary —answered Caesar in defiance, but never raising his voice, always in cold control of his temper—. If you insist in crossing by force, I will stop you.

* * *

(1) Erich S. Gruen. _A Companion to Julius Caesar, Chapter 3: Caesar as a Politician_. Wiley-Blackwell, p 24 and 28.

(2) Cicero means Chickpea.

(3) Mercator is one of the surviving plays of Titus Maccius Plautus, the plot is about Charinus who falls in love with Pasicompsa, and he brings her back to Athens on a boat, but Charinus' father thinks Pasicompsa is a slave for his wife and he falls for her and then all sorts of misunderstandings occurred.

(4) Javier Negrete. _Roma Victoriosa_. La esfera de los libros, p 233

"Una vez que Roma se embarcaba en una guerra, sólo la consideraba terminada cuando había aplastado a su rival hasta tal punto que lo destruía, lo conquistaba o al menos podía imponerle condiciones leoninas."

The original, as you can see, is in Spanish. The translation is mine along with all its mistakes.

(5) Gaius Sallustius Crispus (Sallust). _Catiline's War, The Jugurthine War, Histories_. Penguin Classics Edition. P 36


	7. The Helvetii Pt V

—**Caput V—**

* * *

Once again, it is worth emphasizing that for all his [Caesar´s] flamboyance, association with dubious characters and the controversial nature of some of his actions during the consulship, the overall pattern of Caesar's career had been broadly conventional. Having reached the consulship two years before the normal age, he was just marginally younger than the average proconsul. Compared to Alexander the Great, Hannibal or Pompey his opportunity came very late in life. Alexander was dead by the age of thirty-three, and Hannibal fought his last battle at forty-five […] Neither by Roman or modern standards could Caesar have been considered elderly in 58 BC, but neither would it have been obvious to any of his contemporaries that he was about to prove himself as one of the greatest commanders of all time. (1)

* * *

_It was here, he was here_ —one look was enough for Marcus to recognize the place. He would never forget it, the smell of wet grass and Larch trees would always bring him back to this place. A week had passed since that night and the nameless _patrician_ haunted him like his shadow, plaguing his days with restless dreams and his nights with burning longing. Marcus heard his slightly husky voice when the wind blew; saw his face when he closed his eyes. He became his obsession, he crave for him, needed him! And so Marcus wandered near the rampart with the childish hope of finding him again, praying to the night gods to let him contemplate him again.

_I'm a fool. Why would he be here again with the enemy so close?_ —Marcus tried to convince himself that his wish was foolishness but then, what was his nameless god doing here that night in the first place? He found him once he would find him again. After sleepless nights Marcus had reached the conclusion that his nameless vision was part of the military staff of the Pro-consul, it was the most plausible explanation, a _Legatus_ or maybe a Military Tribune, he was unable to determine his age, something between 30 and 40 years old, maybe less? Marcus wasn't sure. And with that in mind he had walked every day near the _praetorium, _stretching his neck and paying attention even to the most insignificant slave. But nothing. Perhaps he had dreamed it all—. _Even if he was an illusion, I wish I had his name, a name to call for him in my dreams _—Marcus shook his head.

_I should stop thinking about him and concentrate on my mission _—his Cohort was patrolling the rampart that night and so far they had encountered 3 enterprising Helvetii warriors trying to cross; really easy to stop. Ever since the Pro-consul denied the Helvetii safe passage through the province the Gauls had tried to cross by force, lashing several boats together to make rafts, others by looking for the shallowest places. Nothing serious, they just had to throw javelins and arrows from the top of the fortifications, but still they had to be alert—. _I already have enough problems with Crastinus and the _Primus Pilus_ to become known as the only fool who let the Gauls pass under his watch._

— Slow night, sir. Damn Gauls have been pretty silent —Decimus Caelius, _Hastatus Posterior Centurion_, Sixth _Centuria_, walked to him. He was the younger of his Centurions, 25 years old, had been promoted to the Centurionate during winter quarter at Hispania after the previous _Hastatus Posterior_ died from illness. This was his first campaign as Centurion and was so eager to prove himself that it was a little creepy.

— I'm afraid they are —Marcus answered.

— Do you think they are planning something?

— Or maybe they are getting ready to face us on the battlefield, don't you think sir? —Scaeva joined the conversation, approaching after taking a walk around to check on the boys and Marcus thanked the presence of both men in silence. He needed to stop thinking in the nameless dream.

— Only if they are stupid enough to challenge us, I wouldn't worry about them —Marcus was going to change the subject when he noticed his _optio's_ nervousness, his inner cricket telling him there was more than met the eye—. Why do you ask?

— Some of the boys and I were talking to a merchant from Narbonensis…

_Oh, Dis! This isn't good_ —and these words immediately caught the attention of Caelius.

— And he told us about this Brennus-guy.

_No, definitely no good_.

— Who's Brennus? —asked a frowning Caelius.

— Was. This Brennus bastard defeated 6 Legions at the north of Rome and sacked the city —Scaeva sounded preoccupied. Everybody knew Rome had been sacked and almost destroyed by Gauls, but apparently his _optio_ (and _Hastatus Posterior_) ignored the details, including this battle, the Battle of Allia—. What if these Helvetii are like him, sir?

— Is that possible? —now even Caelius sounded worried. Marcus took a deep breath.

— First of all, Brennus was a Senone not a Helvetian.

— But they all are Gauls, right sir? —for Scaeva, the same as for all Romans, all tribes and clans sounded the same and was absolutely unable to tell the difference between an Arvernian and an Aeduan.

— Whatever —Marcus sighed, probably he was the only one in the entire army who gave a damn about Gauls and their customs—. And second that happened more than 300 years ago.

— But the Gauls are still warrior-like people, and they also sacked Macedon and Greece, sir —Marcus liked less and less this merchant and judging by Caelius' expressions he could have a very good idea of what were the rest of the legionaries thinking—. The Gauls attacked Macedon shortly after King Alexander's III death and, so the merchant says, "the sack of Callium by Combutis and Orestorius, was the most atrocious and inhuman in history. They put the whole male sex to the sword; old men and babes at their mother's breasts were butchered alike; and after killing the fattest of the suckling, they even drank their blood and ate their flesh" (2). And Gauls fought with Hannibal, they helped him to invade Italy.

Caelius gasped. Marcus had also heard about the Gauls' attacks to Macedon during the _Diadochi_ Wars, at the time of King Cassander son of Antipater, and their attempt to loot Delphi, there were all kind of terrible tales about them, one more horrible than the last; but Marcus knew also that people were prone to exaggerate and sincerely thought half the things said about the Gauls weren't true. Besides, after the sack of Rome, the Legions defeated the Gauls several times, the most brutal defeat the battle of Telamon… but it was also true these same Helvetii finished the Legions of Cassius Longinus—. _Still no one has ever fought against more than 300,000 Gauls at the same time and the men are more likely to believe stories of human flesh eating Celts. That's no good, especially if we have to fight them soon _—he decided to approach this from a different angle.

— Are you afraid of the Helvetii, Scaeva? Are you Caelius? —Marcus teased them and obtained what he wanted. His _optio_ and _Hastatus Posterior_ looked indignant and straightened themselves.

— Of course not, sir! —exclaimed Caelius, so loudly that a couple of men turned.

— Me? No sir, never —Scaeva shook his head—. I'm just saying the boys are worried.

— They had nothing to worry about —Marcus assured him—. In all my years fighting with Magnus I learned that nothing can stop the Legions of Rome, even the Parthians, so terrible in the East, think it twice before crossing in our way.

— Damn right, sir. Damn right —Scaeva nodded.

Marcus had met and heard of truly moronic Generals, members of the so called aristocratic class, but, even if they didn't have a clue of what they were doing, the legionaries, the Centurions like him, always did the job, always brought victory and honor to Rome—. _And this time it will not be the exception_.

**Oo0oO**

It soon became evident for the Helvetii that crossing through Roman territory would be just a waste of lives, time and resources. The bloody rampart was not impregnable but it made it impossible to cross, it gave the Romans enough time to group and repel the attack. No, that was not the way, and finally Nammeius found an opportunity to talk and made his people see that, their best chance to continue this crazy adventure was to seek the help of Dumnorix, an Aeduan married with a daughter of the late leader Orgetorix.

— Why do we need the help of Dumnorix? —as always Verucloetius was skeptical of his ideas.

— Because the only route open to us now is through the lands of the Sequani but they won't let us pass unless someone speaks on our behalf, and Dumnorix is well dispose towards us —Nammeius explained with all calm, as if talking to a small child.

And that was exactly what the Helvetii did. Dumnorix spoke to the Sequani to let the Helvetii pass through their lands, both tribes exchanged hostages and the deal was closed. Everything would have been fine, the Helvetii could have crossed and established in a new land and Julius would have continued with his plans of invading the Balkans if it hadn't been for a tiny detail…

— The Helvetii are planning to enter the lands of the Santoni —Caesar informed his war council late that night. He had just received information from his spies and didn't lose time to share it with his _Legati_, Tribunes and _primi ordines_—, very close to the lands of the Aedui and of the Tolosates who, as you all know, live inside the Roman province —the imaginary question mark over his officers' heads told him everything he need to know. Santoni, Aedui, Tolosates…all those names sounded the same to them and had absolutely no idea of what was he talking about. _They only know these are long hair Gauls and period_—. Nobody here study the maps of Gaul? —murmurs and coughs answered his question—. Anyway, as I was saying we can't have warlike people so close of the province.

— What are you planning to do? —Publius Licinius Crassus, son of his friend and fellow Triumvir, Marcus Licinus Crassus, asked.

Publius was around Decimus' age although, contrary to Decimus, he was clever, strong and with a natural talent for war. He grew up in a very conservative Roman family, starting with the notorious fact that his father only wife had been his mother, Tertulla, to whom he was still married. Publius was a good boy, kind and always ready to help. Julius had taken Publius with him in consideration for his father but, even if his friendship with Crassus hadn't existed he would have taken him anyway. Publius had no formal rank but, for the time being, Caesar decided to use him as Military Tribune because of his age, later, he would see.

— Stop them of course, we can't have the Helvetii so close to our domains, they will be a constant menace, not to mention that those are rich corn lands —Julius made a pause to let his words sank—. Labienus, you'll stay here and guard the fortifications with the Tenth and the auxiliary cohorts. I'll go to Cisalpine Gaul to enroll 2 more Legions.

— What about the other 3 Legions at winter quarters in Aquileia? —asked Labienus, scratching his chin with the back of his hand.

— I already sent for the Seventh, Eighth and Ninth Legions.

— And how do you plan to come back? —Labienus insisted.

— I'll take the new Legions through the Alps.

— But that will be dangerous, the mountain tribes, the Ceutrones, Graioceli and Caturiges will attack you —Gaius Caninius Rebilus, one of the Military Tribunes, pointed out. Finally someone who read the maps!—. You can suffer casualties not to mention delays.

Gaius Caninius Rebilus was not a prominent man at Rome, he hadn't held any flashy offices, nor was he from an ancient and renown family, in fact, he was a _novus homus_ like Cicero and Gaius Marius so many years ago; but he was a devoted ally who truly believe everything Julius did was awesome; the funny thing about him was that Rebilus was extremely credulous, if you told him a there were pigs that could fly at Picenum, he would definitely believe you, but Julius was sure in time he would become a good officer… or so he hoped.

— Not necessarily —Julius answered with all confidence—. Besides, the Helvetii move very slowly, they are too many, dragging women, children and old men, and they have to pass through the Jura Mountains, that will give us time to get ready.

— So, you think is possible, to defeat more than 300 thousand barbarians with 6 Legions? — Rebilus asked.

— Gaius Cininius, I thought at this point we all agree that with me _everything_ is possible —Labienus rolled his eyes but Rebilus looked at him with stars shining around him.

**Oo0oO**

Jules, you need to be careful with your pet Clodius, I think power is getting into his head; he goes around the city feeling as important as the sacred flame of Vesta. He passed a law forbidding Chickpea to be 400 miles near of Italy, and not only that, he incited the mob to destroy Chickpea's house on the Palatine. Since that day things have gone from bad to worse, violence on the streets is terrible so I decided to go to my villa in Tusculum, you know, the one you don't like because, in your words, is boring. Anyway, I heard you are in Cisalpine Gaul cheating poor ignorant bastards to enlist as your soldiers. Poor souls, only the Gods know what lies have you whispered in their ears.

You know? I have always wondered how do you manage to make people do as you wish while making them think it was their idea all along. One of these days you'll have to give me your secret.

Julius smiled and folded Camillus' letter. The brunette sleeping naked, beautiful and exposed like a flower in the fields of Campania, moved lazily in his bed, the steady rhythm of his breathing letting him know that at least someone in that room was sleeping soundly. He walked to the window. A nightmare had waked him up in the middle of the night and now he wandered like a stranger in his own bedroom. He had too many things haunting him, as always, too many fronts to fight, too many concerns: going from the present situation in his province to the Senate at Rome and his own family; his younger sister Julilla and his mother alone at the _domus publica_ with all the violence Camillus described in his letter—. _How I wish there was a way to pour thoughts out of my mind _—everybody thought that to have a perfect memory like his was a blessing but for him it had always being a burden, condemned to remember even what he desperately wanted to forget.

He turned and looked at the beauty on his bed and ironically thought about his third and present wife, Calpurnia Pisonis, who by the way, was the great granddaughter of a _Legatus_ of the infamous Lucius Cassius Longinus who had been defeated and killed by the Helvetii. She wasn't beautiful, extremely young and shy, but not pretty, something Camillus hadn't failed to notice the same day he met her, but, contrary to what anyone believe Julius wasn't looking for an astonishing woman, he had learned his lesson after marrying Pompeia Sulla, granddaughter of Sulla the Dictator.

Pompeia had been as beautiful as she was dumb, and after that scandal during the _Bona Dea_ celebration in his house, where Publius Clodio disguised himself as a girl in order to see Pompeia and, according to the gossip, seduce her, Julius had decided he had enough marrying beautiful women—. _I need a virtuous wife not a Venus_ —Julius knew how hard some had laughed when he announced with all ceremony that "his wife must be above suspicious" (Camillus had laughed so much that tears had ran down his cheeks and he fell to the ground) and, even if no one could prove Pompeia was guilty, no one could prove she was innocent either, and so he divorced her.

Long ago Julius gave up the idea of finding love, even before marrying his first wife, Cornelia Cinna; she had been a good woman and he had been fond of her, but never in love. Love was as hard to find as an honest politician in Rome (without counting Cato) and, when it appeared, it was only as a weakness. So he concentrated in what was useful, it what he could rely on in order to advance his career—. _And Calpurnia is perfect for that_ —even if Camillus didn't think the same. Not that his friend were a romantic fool but he still believe you could find true happiness and one of the main concerns of Camus was his best friend's loneliness…

— I'm not alone. I have lots of friends —had been Julius' answer the last time they talked about his sad situation (according to Camus).

— We both know that's not true, you have lots of acquaintances, not friends. I'm your only friend! —Camillus threw his arms in the air.

— I don't need more friends.

— You don't need or don't want? —Camillus insisted—. You can't close yourself like this, you don't even allow yourself to have feelings for a woman.

— I had feeling for Cornelia.

— Were you in love with her?

— I didn't say that —Julius was all seriousness and his friend sighed, losing his patience.

— Jules, have you ever think that maybe the love of your life is waiting for you around the corner and you would probably miss her because of your stubbornness? —Camillus closed the distance between them—. You can't hide yourself just because of what happened with Sulla and…—and he couldn't finish. Julius took him with force by the arm, looking as furious as very few people had ever seen him. Camillus gulped and knew he had crossed the line.

— Don't you EVER mention that again, do you hear me? You have no right to talk about it —Camillus nodded, badly shaken by his friend's fury.

No mattered how many years had passed or how many would have to come, Julius would never be able to forget—. _But the past is past, all I have is this moment and my future_.

**Oo0oO**

Everything went exactly as Julius planned. Before long he had 2 brand-new Legions and was on his way to the lands of the Aedui, delimitated in their western border with the upper Loire and in the eastern border with the Saône, separating them from the Sequani. And just as Labienus had warned him, the mountain tribes lost no time in attacking him as soon as he reached their domains, but they weren't a match for Roman Legions, not even green recruits. And for the surprise of many and the terror of others, six days took Julius to reach the Aedui, who welcomed him with an avalanche of requests, not even letting him to eat or rest.

— The Aedui have always been loyal to Rome and it is not right to allow our lands to be ravaged almost under the eyes of your army, our children carried off into slavery and our towns taken by storm —Liscus, the recently elected _Vergobet_, asked for his help. His voice full with passion looking to convince him to lend the Aedui Roman arms to protect their people and completely ignoring that he was actually helping Julius with his request; giving him another reason to intervene—. The Helvetii plunder our lands and those of the Ambarri, our kindred and friends. You have to help us, the Ambarri and the Allobroges who have villages and estates beyond the Rhone, they have come to us seeking refuge after been robbed of everything but the bare soil of their country (3). Help us and we'll see that corn will be delivered to feed your troops.

Julius had always known this was going to happen. Celts had a warlike disposition and to have the Helvetii there would only help to ignite the volatile temper of the tribes already established there—. _And, as I said, if the Helvetii aren't stop now sooner than later they will also cause problems in the tribes in our province too _—it didn't took long for Labienus to arrive with the Tenth Legion, having left behind the auxiliary troops to guard the Rhone, and, with his forces complete and ready, Julius didn't lose time to give his orders and assure the Aedui he would do all in his power to help them against the Helvetii menace.

— The Helvetii are gathered on the river Saone, in the valley of the Formans, 11 miles to the north —Julius informed them, his husky voice, like that of a priest summoning ancient words in a prayer, calling long forgotten Gods, sank in all the present—. They are crossing the river on rafts and small boats tied together and the great majority already reached the other side. We'll attack the remaining group before they can go anywhere and for that we need to move fast —they all agreed in silence—. Labienus, you are coming with me —the _Legatus_ nodded—. Septimus Modius —he called the _Primus Pilus_ of the Tenth Legion—. Who would you chose for a special night mission?

Modius took his time before answering. He had a number of names in mind, men with whom he had fought for years, whom he trust with his life and could very well used the opportunity to shine in front of their _Imperator_; he opened his mouth but then another idea crossed his mind, one that almost made him smile and laugh with evilness like the wicked witch of a fairy tale. He cleared his throat aware that all eyes were on him.

— Marcus Aelius Rufus. He is your man, sir.

— Send for him —Julius ordered, always calm, never raising his voice but with a determination that made it impossible to ignore him—. I want to talk to Marcus Aelius Rufus before the meeting is over.

— Yes, sir —Modius saluted, his fist against his chest.

— Publius Vatinius you'll be in charge of the new Eleventh Legion and Servius Galba will command the Twelfth —Julius continued, Vatinius nodded eagerly while Galba just looked bored—. They could be still _tironis_ but behaved quite well in the mountains.

— I'll see they become proper Roman Legionaries, _Imperator_ —Vatinius assured him.

Vatinius had been Tribune of the Plebs the year before and it had been thanks to him and his _lex Vatinia_, securing a 5 years command to Julius, than they were in Gaul. As soon as his term as Tribune ended he had come with Julius to serve as a _Legatus_ and so far he had no reasons to complain. Vatinius was a staunch supporter of Julius contrary to Servius Sulpicius Galba who was only there because of his multiple friends who had asked the Pro-consul to take him as _Legatus_. And Galba wasn't happy. So far he hadn't done anything spectacular with his life and truth be told nobody expected anything from him, not even Julius.

— Will you be taking the 6 Legions, Caesar? —Decimus wanted to know.

— No, just 3 of them.

— 3 Legions? Against 400,000 barbarians? —Galba exclaimed without bothering to hide his thoughts about this moronic idea—. You will take 17, 000 men against 400,000? —he raised his eyebrows in a show of superiority that resulted annoying.

— Actually dear Galba, its 92,000 against 15, 000 —Julius corrected him with a calm that tasted like subtle mockery. Galba frowned.

— What are you talking about?

— Very easy. The Helvetii, in their total numbers, are around 368,000 not 400, 000.

— Almost the same —Galba's mouth was a thin line, growling the words.

— Almost but not the same. And, as I mentioned before, we are facing just a forth of the Helvetii forces which means 92, 000 people —Julius explained without pauses, without thinking, just pouring the words like rivers pouring into the ocean—, let's assume than little less than a half are warrior and the rest women, children and old men, that gives us 40, 000 warriors if you may. 3 Legions at full strength are 15, 000 men, and let's face it, there is no such thing as a Legion at "full strength", there is always someone sick or unable to stand for battle —he spoke quickly, doing the math in the moment without hesitation and leaving Rebilus with his mouth opened and Galba grinding his teeth.

— Then you should be taking the 6 Legions we have here —Galba insisted, he wasn't going to surrender easily and be left like a fool.

— If I were planning to fight the Helvetii in open battle maybe, and only a complete idiot would challenge them openly so vastly outnumbered —judging by the insane red on Galba's face he was thinking to do exactly as Julius had just said—. So, even if I took 6 Legions we are at a little disadvantage, reason why we are going to hurry and attack by surprise if we don't want to end like food for vultures. The other 3 Legions will stay here at the camp in case the rest of the Helvetii are planning something. We are still in enemy territory, we can't forget that.

— He got you there —Rebilus whispered at Galba's side.

— Shut up!

— Sir —Modius came back with another man—. _Secundus_ _Pilus Prior_ Marcus Aelius Rufus —he announced with strong voice and Julius turned, his aquamarine eyes finding the ultramarine of the Centurion's gaze.

* * *

(1) Adrian Goldsworthy. _Caesar: Life of a Colossus_. Yale University Press, p 185

(2) Christian Habicht. _Pausanias' Guide to Ancient Greece_. University of California Press, p 34

(3) Julius Caesar. _Bellum Gallicum_. The Conquest of Gaul. Penguin Classics Edition, p 33

I based the dialog on _Bellum Gallicum_ but I had to change some words.

(4) _Vergobet_: elected magistrate.

(5) Servius Sulpicius Galba: this Galba was the ancestor of the same Galba who was emperor of Rome for seven months after the death of Nero in 68 AD.


	8. The Helvetii Pt VI

—**Caput VI—**

* * *

[Caesar's] shift was fully in accord with the principles governing generals' pursuit of the senate's foreign policy goals. Generals had always enjoyed wide latitude in their diplomatic and military operations. Rarely were the senate's instructions to one of its commanders very specific. The slowness of communications simply did not permit it to exercise close super vision of a general's conduct in his province, for the situation in the field could change rapidly and render his original instructions irrelevant.

Rather, generals were given a broad mandate to protect the majesty of the Roman people and pursue the best interests of the Republic as they saw fit. A few laws imposed restrictions, such as the prohibition against a governor leaving his province. But Caesar's abandoning operations in Illyria to campaign in Gaul was completely in keeping with this mandate to protect Rome's interests, as he is at pains to stress in the early chapters of the _Bellum Gallicum_. (1)

* * *

If Julius were another person, he would have screamed at the top of his voice like a hysterical woman in front of a cockroach… or, at the very least, pointed at Marcus with his accusatory finger exclaiming "YOU" accompanied by big round eyes and all the indignation he were able to muster. But Julius was a Julii of the Caesares, descendant of Venus and the ancient Kings of Alba Longa, he could traced his linage back to Aeneas of Troy, so it didn't matter how badly he wanted to start screaming or throwing things, he just stared at Marcus, eyebrows up as the only sign betraying his surprise and shock at meeting the same Centurion who "rescued" him at the Rhone—. _Oh, crap_. _Why these things only happened to me?_

And Marcus was not in better conditions. He came to the _praetorium_ summoned by the _Primus Pilus_ without more explanations than a very cold: "the _Imperator_ asked for you." So be it. The idea of meeting Julius didn't excite or repulse him, he didn't even feel curiosity, convinced that he had the measure of his commander, that Julius was another Metellus Pius: a _patrician_ who was playing to be a commander before running back to Rome, politics and to device new ways to spend the money he was surely looking to steal from Gaul… until he saw him. His fist suspended half way to his chest, an unconcluded salute frozen in the same moment he was caught by the sight in front of him, slightly bent over a table with maps unfolded, military tunic and the emblems of his rank visible without doubt.

At first Marcus thought he was hallucinating, finally losing his mind, after days praying to see his nameless dream again. And there he was! Exactly as he remembered him, his memory hadn't embellished Julius with false longing, and Marcus almost trembled, overwhelmed, dazzled. Infinitely worst than his _Imperator_ at keeping his feelings and thoughts at bay, Marcus openly stared at Julius as if he had suddenly turned into a frog, very close to open his mouth or dropping unconscious from the sheer impression. After weeks of day dreaming, after a hundred sleepless nights wondering who that man was, interweaving all kinds of fantastic stories to explain his appearance at the Rhone, suddenly he found himself drowning in those aquamarine eyes once again—. _Caesar? He is CAESAR?_ —definitely he wasn't expecting this.

— Do you know him? —Rebilus looked at Marcus and then at Julius, finally asking the key question when silence stretched on and on. His words broke the spell that had taken over the moment achieving the impossible: to leave Julius without words.

— Marcus Aelius Rufus —Julius repeated his name, slowly, as a prayer or a curse, finally able to know the identity of the mysterious Centurion—. _Primus Pilus_ Septimus Modius assures me you are the perfect choice for an especial mission —he ignored Rebilus' question, talking as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn't seen the _Secundus Pilus Prior_ in his entire life and this threw Marcus off balance.

The cold military formality in Julius' voice was unsettling, nothing to do with that angry voice arguing with him at the river, and Marcus found himself in serious problems, trying to remember how to speak—. _Gods! And those eyes like the ocean, indomitable, unknown, fascinating, beautiful… No. Don't look at me like that, as if you could see my soul and the rottenness it holds_—it took him a while before he was finally able to utter coherent words, aware that all eyes were on him. He cleared his throat.

— The _Pilus Primus_ honors me…sir —and so enraptured was he that never connected the dots to ask: why was Modius speaking well of him when everybody knew he hated Marcus.

— What's your plan? —Labienus turned to Julius and the _Imperator_ finally took his eyes away from Marcus for his utterly disappointment.

— I'll lead 3 Legions against the Helvetii while Marcus Aelius' Cohort, aided by 2 auxiliary Cohorts, guard the river to stop anyone who tries to come and help. We have to be like lighting, striking before the Helvetii can even know what is happening —once again Julius turned to him and Marcus felt his knees weak. A sensation of being inside the temple, facing the immortal gods, took over his body. When Julius talked about war his raspy voice became sharp, almost metallic, dangerous and lethal, a voice that went straight to the bone marrow, demanding obedience without the need to shout. Calm, always calm, a lullaby of calamities to come.

_What is wrong with him?_ —Julius wondered, watching the strange expression on the Centurion's face— _Why does he look at me like that?_ —he was starting to get piss but succeeded in controlling his temper.

— Are your orders clear, Marcus Aelius? Do you think capable of stopping the enemy? —Julius could have asked for his soul and he would have given it to him without thinking twice. Marcus cleared his throat.

— Yes, sir. No Helvetii will cross the river.

— Good man, you'll march when the meeting is over —Julius finally turned to face the others—. We leave the camp with 3 Legions at midnight, the rest will follow as soon as the sun rises.

They had their orders and quickly left the _praetorium_ in groups of twos and threes to get ready for the night march, ones more excited than others and many more scared than enthusiastic. Night was a zealous guardian of her domains, and marches at the witches' hour were always complicated dangerous business with darkness playing nasty tricks in men's heads. But here was even worst. It was even said that ancient spells and demons had claimed the forests of Gauls as their realm, lurking in the shadows, clamoring for the blood of those who dared to enter its territory.

But they all were soldiers of Rome, the best in the known world, trained to win and would do whatever it was necessary to secure victory, against odds and against numbers—. _We can't… we won't lose_ —Julius closed his eyes for a moment, both hands of the table in front of him, his mind racing. He was already in the upcoming battle looking for all the possible faults of his plan, looking for all the possible actions the Helvetii could take to stop him. For a moment he was no longer the commander of the Roman Legions, for a moment he was a Helvetii chieftain, standing among his people while a wall of shields and swords descended upon them. What would he do? How could he stop the Legions? When he opened his eyes again, found that only Marcus remained in the room—. _What the…?_

— Do you need something more _Pilus Prior_? —it took Julius a beat of his heart to know they were completely alone. Was this good or bad? _And why do I care? _He straightened.

— Sir, I just want to know if you are fine.

_No, please don't_ —he thought annoyed. Many things passed through his head but, for the first time in his life, the obvious one escaped his attention since he was too embarrassed to talk about his malady in front of a complete stranger.

— My health is excellent _Pilus Prior_. Now, don't you have something to do? —Marcus saluted and turned to leave, hiding from Julius a broad smile of pure happiness. Finally he had a name to call in his dreams, finally he knew. Marcus vowed to Venus and Bellona that he would become again _Pilus Primus_ Centurion, he would be once again among the _primi ordines_ and he would be close to Julius, in every military council, at his side in every battle. He had something to live again.

**Oo0oO**

It was a dark night without moon, one of those that aroused men's imagination and wake up hidden fears, one of those where you can't even see your own hand, but perfect for what Julius had planned. An extremely happy Marcus gathered his not at all happy men in record time, giving quick orders to his Centurions, feeling big as Mars and important as if he had been elected Consul; by his way of talking Scaeva felt as if they had been chosen to lead a triumph procession instead of picked for a common night mission. Marcus marched them outside the camp, giving orders to wrap in clothes swords and equipment, not wanting to alert the enemy with the faithful companion of the Legions: the rhythmic metallic sound of their steps.

— Damn weird not to hear _click, click_ —a voice whispered not far from him, followed by _Bam_ and _Ouch_.

— Shut your fucking mouth! —Scaeva growled, barely raising his voice, the _hastile_, his staff, menacingly in his hand daring them to speak again.

Marcus' Cohort and the auxiliary troops arrived without problems at the bank of the Saone, hidden from the unknowing eyes of the Helvetii, soundly sleeping in what they thought was a camp, surrounded by their baggage and wagons. If they had sentries Marcus was unable to see them, just a few fires burning around the place without a visible order—. _If Caesar manages to arrive unseen his plan will be a complete success_ —he turned to the other side, to where the rest of the Helvetii rested, the ones he should stop in case they attempt to rescue their kinsmen, and was met only by thick darkness.

— You are in a good mood, sir —Scaeva pointed out, his voice a soft whisper he would have missed if Marcus wasn't so close to his _optio_.

_Am I that obvious?_ —Marcus smiled and turned to look at Scaeva while checking the straps of his own helmet.

— I'm just glad to finally see some action —he lied.

— Did something happen at Caesar's tent, sir?

_I wish it had_ —Marcus smiled like a lovestruck teenager (thank the gods it was dark!) and lifted his head, as if looking for a sign in the sky; then surveyed the Saone. He couldn't see much; he knew the river was there because of the sound of the never stopping water and darker shadows not so far told him where the forest was.

— I guess you can say that. Caesar chose us for this special mission and it's our chance to shine, don't you think? —but Scaeva didn't share his enthusiasm.

— I don't know —the _optio_ shook his head—. There is something I don't like about this, sir.

— What's that?

— Sir, everybody knows night missions are extremely dangerous.

— Yes, so? What is it you are trying to say? —Marcus was starting to get impatience. He was in such a great mood that wasn't going to let anyone ruin it, no mattered how valid the reasons were and he suspected his _optio_ had very good reasons he didn't want to hear.

— That's very easy to screw things up, sir —Scaeva counted with his fingers—. We are alone, at the side of the river, in a dark night with the gods know how many thousand Helvetii at the other side. One mistake, just one, and we are finished, sir.

It was one of those moments when Marcus felt like hitting his head against the ground—. _I'm an idiot!_ —he growled intelligible words, making the men near him jumped. How was he hadn't seen this before? Of course it was a trap! After all, it had been Modius the one who mentioned his name to Caesar in the first place—. _Pluto's cock!_ —he wanted to shout and pull his hair, and the anger must have been visible in his face (even in the dark) since Scaeva took a step back.

Marcus took a deep breath.

— It's too late for regrets —Marcus spoke with all the calm he was capable of summoning in his condition—. We have orders and I will see that no Helvetii cross this river, no matter what.

_I'll show Modius he is messing with the wrong guy_ —he took a deep breath, determined and sure of what he was doing—._ I'll see Caesar again, when he decorates me after this_ —and with that in mind he called his Centurions and gave orders.

**Oo0oO**

_This is not a battle, it's a slaughter_ —Julius' impassible eyes traveled over the field. From his horse he could see fires burning around the Helvetii camp and shadows running. The screams pierced the night and the metallic sound of weapons filled the air around him—. _They can't run, trapped in the middle thanks to their own baggage _—wagons that had been left to their protection turned against them. The smell of burned wood and flesh filled his nostrils revolting him; but, before being Julius he was a Roman commander, and Roman commanders didn't throw up, didn't run from the battlefield just because they couldn't stand the consequences of their own decisions. He didn't cough nor gave signs of discomfort. He was there and, at the same time, far, far away. A god passing judgment over mortals.

Julius observed everything close enough to intervene in case it was necessary but far enough to see what was happening everywhere. Every now and then he issued orders, cold and detached orders that could have made him look like a cruel master while people were dying not far from him. It was necessary. Julius didn't enjoy this, to attack a camp with women, children and old men but he had no choice—. _There was no other way to deal with them, not with just 6 Legions _—defeat was not an option, not for him, not if he wanted to go back to Rome one day.

— Caesar, a group of Helvetii are running for the hills —one of his _lictors_ pointed with his arm stretched.

— Leave them be. I don't want to annihilate them, I want them back to their lands —he answered, his eyes reaching the Saone where Marcus was fighting.

Just as he had predicted as soon as the first sounds of battle reached the other side of the river, the Helvetti tried to come to their kinsmen rescue—. _But even if they are more we have the advantage with the Saone between us, and Marcus Aelius has to exploit this advantage _—the _Secundus Primus Pilus_ didn't know it but in his hands rested an important part of Julius' plan, in his hands rested the fate of them all—. _If the rest of the Helvetii manage to cross the river we'll be in serious troubles._

**Oo0oO**

— RELEASE _PILAAA_! —Marcus screamed at the top of his voice, hearing his Centurions repeating the order like an endless echo across the lines of men.

The familiar whistle of the _pila_ filled the air —_One, two, three_ —three heartbeats and a rain of javelins fell over the few warriors who were succeeding to cross the river, followed by the blood chilling cacophony of screams and moans. At the other side the Helvetii brought torches and thanks to the dim dancing light Marcus was able to distinguish silhouettes and shadows—. _They aren't many, its too early and the rest must be still sleeping or wondering what's going on_ —but he couldn't let his guard down—. _Caesar has to end the attack before this lot has time to call their warriors _—he saw movement at the other side and heard voices, probably calling their companions. They were coming—. _It's my job to assure Caesar has time enough to finish them._

Marcus drew his _gladius_.

— Bring the slingers!

**Oo0oO**

Fortune, so fickle and so unpredictable, as always smiled at Julius, with whom she appeared to be fascinated (or to have adopted as her pet) and, by morning, it became evident that the Helvetii, on the Roman side of the river, wouldn't be a menace anymore to anyone—. _For now_ —it was still early, the first bashful sunrays appearing behind the distant mountains, as if afraid to witness what the battle had left at the river that night. The legionaries quickly gathered the survivors who didn't manage to escape and got ready to go back to camp before they had to suffer the rage of the men at the other side.

— The lads are ready to head back, sir —Modius informed Caesar, still around the place where a few hours ago had stood the Helvetian camp.

— Sir! —Marcus strode to them before Julius could answer and up went Modius' eyebrows when he saw the _Secundus Pilus Prior _alive, covered in mud to the knees, wet and sweating but otherwise in perfect shape; behind him 2 legionaries dragged what Julius judged to be a very manhandled Gaul with his disheveled hair covering his face—. A word, sir —Julius nodded and his _lictors_ moved aside.

— What is it, _Pilus Prior_?

_Dear Venus! He looks even better in uniform_ —Marcus cleared his throat. As an answer the legionaries pushed the Gaul to the front, the man fell on his knees.

— This man says he knows about the plans of the Helvetii —Marcus explained, successfully restraining his eyes from wandering over his _Imperator's_ face—. He was almost killed last night until he began to shout he had useful information —the Gaul mumbled something like sounded like curses. One of the legionaries was about to hit him but Marcus shut the prisoner up in Celtic.

Julius didn't see that one coming.

— You speak Celtic? —he asked with interest, looking at his Centurion under a new light.

— A little, sir —Marcus tried to avoid Modius's face or was sure he won't be able to refrain from smiling…or pointing at him blowing a raspberry—. Learned in Hispania while fighting the Celtiberians of Sertorius' army.

— A veteran of Metellus Pious' or Pompeius' Legions?

— Both, sir. Joined Metellus and later fought for Magnus —Julius nodded. _He had served his term_, _why is he here?_ His eyes settled on the prisoner.

— Take him to the camp, we'll talk to him when we are back —said Julius and the legionaries dragged the man—. And Marcus Aelius…

— Yes, sir?

— You did well last night —Julius smiled at him and Marcus thought he was going to do the very unmanly thing of fainting (or at least blushing). What a smile! It made you wish for more battles if after all the blood and horror you were able to contemplate such magnificent event, so radiant, such a sweet agony, to see such lips and not be able to touch them. Marcus cleared his throat.

— Thank you, sir.

**Oo0oO**

— If Rome makes peace with the Helvetii we'll go and remain wherever you choose to settle us —in less than 24 hours came the answered of the Helvetii. The massacre at the Soane affected the survivors in more ways than colors are in a rainbow. Many asked for bloody vengeance with angry fists raised to the sky, others for a peaceful settlement. They were furious, scared, indignant, confuse, incredulous…and in such an amalgam of emotions one man had stood among them and led an embassy to the Roman Pro-consul.

Divico, a man of around 75 years old but tall and strong with savage pale blue eyes, spoke that morning at the _praetorium_ with the same energy of a man half his age. 20 days had taken the Helvetii to cross the Saone, 20 difficult days, and after the slaughter of the day before Julius had ordered to built a bridge over the river and pursue the rest of them, who didn't wait for him to find them, especially after seeing how he crossed in just 1 day with his 6 Legions. Julius knew they were scared, even if Divico looked every inch the warrior he was, defiant and terrible, but he also knew he still was greatly outnumbered.

They prisoner hadn't shared life or death information but at least had gave Julius an idea of the mood among the Gallic tribe—. _And thanks to that now I know how to deal with them. _

It was late, the army had just finished the camp to rest that night after crossing when the Helvetii showed up—. _Curious they chose to send me this time the famous and old Divico, the same man who led them to victory over the army of Cassius 49 years before_ —it was a subtle message, one that didn't pass unnoticed to him. A threat in the form of a man. The Helvetii were cautions but far from hiding like rabbits after the Roman victory at the Saone and Divico's next words did nothing but confirm his thoughts.

— If, however, you persist in making war upon us, you'll do well to remember the Romans' previous reverse and the traditional bravery of the Helvetii —his slave translate the words but the sole passion in Divico's voice was enough to let Julius, seated on his _sella curulis_, get the message—. You have made a surprise attack on one clan, the Tigurini, at a moment when us, their comrades, who had crossed the river, could not come to their help; but you should not on this account exaggerate your own prowess or despise us. We have learned from our fathers and ancestors to fight like brave men, and not to rely on trickery or stratagem. So beware; or it might be that the place…

His usually sleeping looking slave stopped, hesitating, unsure of how to translate the next words without incurring in his master's fury, twisting his hands and making Divico's anger show in his face. The Helvetii was a man of scarce patience and looked very capable of hitting the slave if he didn't continue translating.

— Go on —Julius ordered without looking at his slave, his eyes on Divico, and the slave nodded nervously, cleaning the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand.

— So beware; or it might be that the place where we stand would become famous in future ages as the scene of a Roman disaster and the destruction of a Roman army —the slave finished and lowered his head, almost as asking forgiveness for words it weren't his own.

Julius take a moment before answering, not because he didn't know what to say, because he wanted his words to be fully understood and, for that, wanted Divico to calm down a little after that explosion of passion and fury. At the end of the room he could hear Niketas writing over his wax tablet, heard someone coughing at the Gauls' side; it was so quiet that it gave him the impression of being able to hear the breathing of his own soldiers, ready at the door in case he needed them. Julius was a statue, perfectly straight in that backless chair, his eyes on the Helvetii.

Divico was getting impatient.

— I have no hesitation about the action I should take, especially as I had not forgotten the Roman reverse to which you refer, a misfortune that I resent all the more because it was undeserved —said Julius at last, his raspy smooth voice disrupting the quiet that had taken possession of the place, scaring the man behind Divico. His slave needed a moment to start translating—. If the Romans at that time had been conscious of any act of oppression, it would have been easy to take precautions; they were caught off their guard because they knew they had done nothing to justify apprehension and thought it undignified to fear without cause.

Divico twisted his mouth hearing what for him was nothing but excuses—. _Good. His impatient will be my advantage_ —Julius waited for his slave to finish.

— Even, if I were willing to forget this old affront —Julius continued—, could I banish the recollection of your fresh insults? Your attempt to force a passage through the Province in defiance of my prohibition? And, your attacks upon the Aedui, the Ambarri, and the Allobroges? (2)

Divico murmured something the slave didn't hear or thought it better to leave without translation. Julius leaned slightly to the front.

—"The victory of which you boast so arrogantly and the surprisingly long time during which you have escaped punishment are both due to the same cause" —his serene purring voice became sharp like a sword, dangerous in his calm and correct manners—. "When the gods intend to make a man pay for his crimes, they generally allow him to enjoy moments of success and a long period of impunity, so that he may feel his reverse of fortune, when it eventually comes, all the more keenly —he was a seer in that moment, an oracle full of wisdom, terrible and implacable but still merciful.

Divico felt the urge to look for his sword but he was unarmed.

— "However" —Julius leaned back again, softening his words—, "if you will give hostages as a guarantee that you mean to carry out your undertakings and will recompense the Aedui and the Allobroges for the injury you have done to them and their allies, I am willing to make peace with you." (3) —Julius' words achieved to turn Divico's face into an unhealthy purple, he insulted him in a worst manner than if he had made jokes about his mother. The Helvetii clenched his fists.

—It is the traditional custom of the Helvetii to demand hostages of others, but never to give them, as you Roman —he spat the word with contempt and haughtily lifted his head—, have good cause to know —and with this Divico departed.

— What now, _domine_? —Niketas wanted to know, approaching his master when they were alone.

— Now we follow them.

* * *

(1) Nathan Rosenstein. _A Companion to Julius Caesar, Chapter 7: General and Imperialist_. Wiley-Blackwell, p 88

(2) and (3) Julius Caesar. _Bellum Gallicum_. The Conquest of Gaul. Penguin Classics Edition, p 34 and 35

Again I based the whole conversation with Divico in Caesar's account of the Helvetii campaign, only the part with quotation marks is exactly the same as it appears on the translation of S.A. Handford.


End file.
